And so it is myself whom I destroy.

How like a prison is my once loved home

Since now I linger here in fevered chills.

No more may I be free to walk and roam

Nor climb the mountains and the hills.

The television irks me  and annoys

I cannot bear the sound of human voice.

My  lost intelligence is not deployed

I err in thinking I  have little choice.

And so it is myself whom I destroy.

What path to take when feeling lost and ill,

When lying in  my bed I cannot rest.

What act would give me strength and  better will?

What  purpose has this illness and its test?

The road to hell is paved with too much thought

So smaller joys and pleasures are not sought