Sick as sick can be.
Sick as sin can be.
Sick as the mortician.
Sick as the reaper.
Sick as the bleeding gums.
Sick as the eyeless.
Sick as the paper thin skin.
Sick sickly as the doctors.
Sick sickly as the doctors’ masks.
Sick sickly as impending doom.
Sick as sick can be from the ungodly cold and the hellish heat.
Sick as sin can be as the doctors prance through the grass at night.
Sick sickly like the number of bodies growing in the millions.
Sick sickly like the devilish mortician’s fancies.
Hellish as the dreams of the dead fill my eyes and flood my senses.
Hellish as bones crack, as skin melts like cheese, and as screams go hoarse.
Hellish as the mixture of smells and sights grows more grotesque by the minute.
I’m stuck in this towering terror of pain.
I was once a doctor… now just a number with which was written upon my back.
Written on, seared like cattle, then gutted like swine.
I’m mixed in with the plague, like one big steaming stew.
I have a mask that was made for me.
It was made from me.
The end is near.