The words still come out of my fingers,
though my sick throat constricts
their timely exit from tightened lips.
Great ideas in mind still stew and linger.
Someday the mental darts will find their mark,
but until then they must endure a momentary lark.
The fingers crab-scratch them out on paper's stark
white surfaces for later use as authorial sparks.
No cold virus can forever prevent thoughts
from propagating over an unwary audience;
Though give reprieve in response to suppliance –
but the piper will still be paid, eyeballs still caught.
The weary author pauses in his vindictive script,
ponders which potion will relieve the onslaught –
send mouthwash or cold pills to the viral battlefront?
Some Gelcaps get gulped without another thought.
Back to tickling the keys and torturing the eyes,
keep typing and delay a potential poetic demise.