My nose, once proud, now sealed in gloom,
A fortress of congestion’s doom.
Each breath’s a quest through mist and pain,
A wheezy wind across the plain.
My throat, a desert lined with flame,
Each swallow plays a cruel game.
Tea and honey wage their fight,
Yet comfort flees into the night.
My head’s a cloud, my thoughts are slow,
The world drifts by in muffled woe.
A tissue mountain by my bed,
A crown of sniffles on my head.
Oh health! You fickle, fleeting guest,
Return, I beg, and grant me rest.
Till then I cough, I groan, I sneeze—
And dream of breathing clear with ease.
Therapy Bits 
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