Disease

I used to think
My words
Were a way of
Keeping healthy

Ignoring the fact
Each poem
Was some problem
Unresolved

Or an ailment
Trailing death
By that leash
Of bare expression

Like some virus
Bound to damage
With a syndrome
Unexplained

Seeping through
These veins
Of a fractured verse
So desperate

No author
Worth their sentence
Could just bear
To hold them back

As this blood
Soon trickled down
Upon pages
Meant for ripping

Like thick waves
Of crimson letters
Begging truth
In open script

Where my body
Decomposed
Was that wound
Of gaping wisdoms

Telling lies
Which offered secrets
If you read
Between each hole

When such flesh
Had fallen ill
And this heart
Had suffered rhythms

Out of sequence
With these phrases
Though my sickness
Was that chance

To prove hurt
Had summoned fears
Seizing guilt
Without my notice

Drawing strength
From shattered faces
Missing eyes
Which never seen

What this rot
Left in my grave
As that gift
Of empty spaces

Like a limb
Detached while waiting
For its whole
To fall apart

Knowing bone
Can only stay
If belief
Had any vestige

Within texts
Of dreaming corpses
Living each day
As their last.

– J. Pigno

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