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Contagion

My poem is my virus.
I am the parasite.
You are the host.
I violate your membrane
with perverse imagery.

Your soul is eternal.
Mine is not.
I will leech into you.
I will bleed into you,
all of my DNA.

All of my relevance
is in this syllable...
What sound do I need to make
to destroy you forever?
What is the rhythm of significance?

I am as arrogant as a plague.
No effort can sterilize my filth.
This disease is as certain as death
if you have read this this far.
then it is too late. You are too far gone.

When I die, you will carry me with you
into dense crowds of loved ones,
into temples, into courts and classrooms.
The infection will spread to your tongue.
Your voice. Your sound.
And you have become the parasite.

Comments

  1. SandyCarlsonOctober 15, 2011 at 8:13 PM

    If only I could keep time with the rhythm of significance....

    Beautiful.

    Thanks.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Haven FairfieldOctober 15, 2011 at 8:14 PM

    For some weird reason, I missed your comment until now. Thanks, as always, thanks Sandy.

    ReplyDelete

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