An Explanation

[To my Guildmates - as to why my visits have been brief, and I haven't
been communicative, recently]

Your head is hot and your senses are shot
And you want to go to bed.
Your nose is sneezing, your breath is wheezing,
And your eyes are streaming red.

You just can't think, and you're on the brink
Of complete and utter collapse.
Your skin's on fire and events conspire,
To stop those healing naps.

You're woken by Yells and urgent Tells
That force you to concentrate.
You're needed by the Guild. Your stomach must be filled,
But you're feeling quite fourth-rate.

You sort through your vials, and various phials,
But nothing can help relieve
Your head's throbbing pain, that befuddles your brain.
Do you stay in the Realms or now leave?

You'll catch up on the news, while you've got the blues
And then just gently disappear,
But as those coughs hound you, someone has found you
And wants your attention, I fear.

Your cloak you hold. You go out in the cold.
You struggle through the rain and through the snow.
You do your very best, though you really need a rest,
And all you want to do is quietly go.

You wish you could be tougher, and stand there firm and suffer
But, frankly, that has never been your style.
So you go back to your bed, pull the sheets above your head,
And ignore the passing world, for just a while.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Daedalan, in the year 379 AF.