Florescent lights flicker in my drugged up haze. Heaven is burning , their images, branding into the back of my skull; they dance witlessly, waif-like inside my eyelids, like fallen angles.
As I lie, sad, wreck and ruin in my sea of bleached and beseeched white, I am no longer a person but an idea, I harbour fear, I am an extension of it, a host for deaths presence.
My sickness is consuming, degrading . She lays siege in my blood like Viking war ships , draping my bones with banners, her image egotistical, cruel.
I am hers. I am to die.