exit towards the bed

it will be better
tomorrow right
she asks pleaded
whined or maybe
whimpered
the tone of voice is
so difficult to fixate
upon a map
when there is a tempest
of blowing fevers
hacking and aching
disguising comfort
as swallowed glass
nails poked under
the skin is a sensitive
organ playing a dirge
marching slowing
towards a dawning
moment which turns
the corner and heads
towards the recovered
exit