563 Days Poem by Invalid Files

A singer with a parched throat,
or a pianist without fingers,
The dreaded dawn breaks through
The cracks between the soft curtains,

Cacophony of the bustling street
reminds me that I am alive;
a walking dead with a message-
dead, but not able to die enough,

Five hundred sixty-three days,
A sick, ill organ of life,
Deteriorating cells
bring tension to my calendar,

Past the expiration,
Yet under the heating sun I walk,
An army of us, none alone,
Left something behind,

Your name with every breath,
Prohibited, but how I ache
To tell you these sweet, rotting words
How long will this torture last?

A singer with a parched throat,
or a pianist without fingers,
Five hundred sixty-three days,
And today too, I shall ache