Oh what a trial is the sinful shaft,
The expulsion and eruption of the yang,
And the terrible yin stay...
It’s Springtime, and I am twitterpated!
when our dreams
have all headed
when the memories we held tight
against our chest
only remain as tattered
I became trapped in a pixilated universe—
a virtual reality, I invested in a world
of people I couldn’t see or touch, but
What if love is but a disease?
A infection transmitted via blood and air,
That inflicts us with it’s madness, not allowing proper function,
And seizes us wholly until it has spread all over,
Slowly killing the host from within if symbyosis is not acheived,
And leaves when the heart is too damaged to go on.
Love must be a virus,
For there is no cure or treatment for it,
Until you face that near death so many times,
That you build up a natural immunity,
And the infections come less frequently.
The crazy thing though,
Is that you miss the infections,
You miss the madness,
And you curse your built immunity,
For that is the disease’s best trick,
It makes you crave for it,
An eternal parasite that we love to have.
The scent, devoid of life,
A sterile chemical odor,
That contains the stink of plague,
All the pestilent poxes struck down,
Their rotting corpses do reek,
But that is not all that it contains,
For the musky trail of the reaper,
Does waft upon those sterile breezes,
A haunting warning to all,
That which life fears most resides here,
You might not make it out alive.