Getting Over It

The world feels like a dream where everything exists miles away but you're still able to touch it, hold and lift it. Thoughts feel sluggish even though they keep pace with the ticking of the clock. One by one the moments fly by in eons, and before you know it the dawn has gone past the time between the dog and the werewolf. But the permeating affliction of sleepless nights holds even more firmly to he body in a muffled cry of cold. Still you must trudge on, voice harsh with the remnants of ailment. Hide what has become and hope you're getting well; fight the molasses of sand and succeed in living. There isn't time to rest with the stars, no time to howl at the moon, no time to shiver in the dark. There's no time for sickness to win in the West. The show must go on.