Each word
Is another disease
Of a weak
And different strain
Which thrives
Not upon its victim
But the fact
Of his mortal
Death

By instilling
Germs as fear
With their threat
A life inside him
Like this home
An easy killer
Slowly sipping
Blood
Through trust

Eating faith
On empty tanks
Craving nothing
But obsession
Towards expressing
Verses waiting
For that turn
Which never
Speaks

What comes after
Breath has passed
Far beyond
Whose phrases matter
To such bodies
Left uneasy
Dying slowly
While they
Say

Every answer
Lost in flesh
Gone from feeling
Certain pleasure
At ignoring
Untold sickness
Giving art
Its only
Chance.

– J. Pigno