The Pen and The Wind

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.  

I looked upon you today, 
Dead affection hanging in me,
Like a rotting kidney,
It’s a bit nauseating, 
Seeing how I used to feel so much,
And now it’s necrotic tissue,
So sickening it made it hard to look at you,
But its hard to be sickened,
When you still somehow get me aroused. 

http://authspot.com/poetry/dead-affection/ 

I can tell it’s approaching, 
When there is a miasma in my throat.
And soon it begins to ignite,
Burning my nostrils as it flows.

Pestilence begins to embrace me,
Draining my energy,
Filling my body to the brim with pain,
And he’s not done yet.

Take away my ability to eat,
So I can’t fight it off.
Slip into a painful sleep,
That’s the only way to make it right.