The Burden of Solitude

I woke up this morning with a stranger's finger shooting straight through my temples. Someone said that it was the day of resurrection, but I never knew what that meant anyway. The ominous heat broke through from my brain cells to my extremities before a massive flush of fever sent the contents of my stomach into a motion of upheaval. I laid in bed, alone in the cold light of a religious holiday, just waiting for a kind hand to be placed on my forehead. It was merely a pipe dream, but a sorry source of consolation nonetheless. My autumn arms are arching for a few rays of light to touch them before they wither into nonexistence. My aching back is transfixed with the burden of solitude. Within the walls of these apocryphal times, my heart feels wrinkled like the path that it followed into Siberia.