Ebola

I can feel my temples pulsate with every beat of my heart.
Even and steady, one right after the other in a rhythmic song.
The observations are at a start, of which I have become a part,
standing within this hot suit so long.

The plastic just inches from my face are distorted by small beads of sweat,
but the image of this man is still so clear,
his face is drained, and full of fear,
from this infested African Zaire threat.

Yet, I feel safe, just a headache with some muscle ache,
with sweat running down my arms, and onto my hand.
Hopefully this observation will be a piece of cake,
and go all as smoothly as recently planned.

The patient begins to severely choke as vomit pour out upon the floor,
His sweat is red from the blood, and breathing has become a chore.
Suddenly a rip is heard from within the convulsing dying man,
It is his bowels opening at the sphincter, and venting blood from his glands.

All attempts to hold him, are only held in bitter vain,
for blood splatters my plastic face from his retching seething pain.
I feel secure within my suit except for my minor aches,
Little stomach pain, and fatigue, I tell myself, for heaven sakes.

The patient spits, and twist, as blood fills the air,
his bowels evacuate, as I gave out a horrid stare.
His intestines have come off, and lay there in the red,
his hemorrhagic draining has produced my transit glare.

The patient no longer moves, and lies dormant on the cot,
his body looks as though it made one year of rot.
I come to realize my colleges are no longer making the view,
they are now all transfixed on your narrators true.

The blood that had spit across my plastic vision,
was from my own sticking eyes infected prism.
The cough that was my stomach’s pain,
was the Ebola infesting my body to rein.

So now I am the show, I am the patient, I am the dead.
I am the next to be covered within the infected red.
The experience from my curiosity with the Ebola strain,
led to this solution of now becoming, insane.