The rain is a storm of caged birds,
the clipped wings of a body
stripped of its inner sanctum.
The muscle torn and stretched,
back to front. The lungs
with their waves of fear,
the heart galloping.
This ringing, rushing in my head.
My blood holding the secret
to exhaustion. A battle
I glimpse in the early hours
when the wind whips through
my ribs and I am clinging
to the mast. A shredded flag,
defiant fluttering in my bones.
I am not the captain of this vessel,
I am a stowaway hidden
in the hold of sickness.
But I see my face reflected
in fresh water and my eyes
are scratched glass,
the patterns flying free.
