Ode to Illness

O, Illness: An Ode

You are a sneaky spy, never seen coming
Until you are spread far and wide
Like something thrown into a fan, still humming
And there is no good place to hide.
Everything about your presence is sour
From the taste that you cause to your potent smell.
Sitting, sick, on rumpled and clammy feeling bed sheets all day long
A mere minute becomes an hour.
The murmuring of the TV helps to quell
And the softness of sleep helps as well.
Illness, you are a devil to be reckoned with, powerful and strong.