The smell of sickness
is very faint—
it is there but almost not.
Sickness is stale air with a mix of sadness.
And the irony is that
the sadness is my own.
For I am sad that he is sick.
stale air
The smell of sickness
is very faint—
it is there but almost not.
Sickness is stale air with a mix of sadness.
And the irony is that
the sadness is my own.
For I am sad that he is sick.
