Illness Poem by David Mitchell

I lie with aching head
In my hot imprisoning bed
With a splutter, cough, and pain; I am alone;
I am left myself to mend,
In the scenery to blend,
And nobody hears my silent stifled groans.

And the ceaseless stream of time
Flows its uncouth course sublime,
And the lives of others peacefully exist
But time for me means naught
In a cell of rambling thought
And a hope that soon this sickness shall desist.

(Tuesday,28th March,2006.)