She’s krept into the daylight, gently infusing the air with her death
the sky is a false promise, the sunlight moves to beckon us and then
leave slowly as his brother the night takes over.

I’ve been infected, without cause or merit and it began with disinterest.
And now, the disease has taken hold wiping away the joy of all things known.
It’s metastasized beneath this flesh and fury, this alzheimers of the body.

The devil is a cunning warrior, his tactics the best of the worst.
I’ve denied him everything reasonable, leaving him to steal the unreasonable. Passion.
And there is nothing left, a hollow, a shell, an indifference, an agony of always.

I’ve been infected by a deadly strain, not knowing the night for the day, not caring.
My body is riddled with the passion of nothing.
This prison is a promise.

J.M. Prater