to be ill

there is no recovery substantial enough to hold
the dead things I carry
smears against hope
there is no landscape that blooms better than desert
enough to wipe memory of waterless slumber
I move when stillness pretends death
I stay when moving pretends chaos
the god of chaos, that great leviathan
the serpent coiled within
under the deep
how it swims around spine
its marks cover my body
I live inflamed, searching for antivenom
half sick and half well
can one who is ill ever claim health?
when the slither sleeps I sleep
when it awakes I wrestle under its choke
I cannot step on its head
I have tried
besides
it is no longer a ground dweller
but one who looks in the eye
to hypnotize
remove the lengthy worm
if rescue is my ask
though passers at their convenience
I could warn of the dragon at their heels
yet my own removes speech
kill yours first if you can
then come rid mine
if somehow I am freed instead
I will shout ahead