It creeps into my stomach, unwelcome, uninvited;
like a snake weaving its way into a crevice to escape the rain.
There it remains like a tightly weaved knot.
Silent. Brooding. Still. Sleeping.
Try to get on with things.
Wake. Sleep. Work. Friends. Write. Life.
It’s still there.
Try to ignore it.
Hoping that it fades, unties.
Skulks silently away, just as it came.