F. G. Denton

In shaking hands I hold the paper, Another scripture in archive— It percolates with acrid vapor, My only way to stay alive. It propagates itself on pages, The endless scrolls across the floor, Scratched-out lines are macrophages, Devouring each infected spore. In every word—dissemination, That is replacing thoughts with noise; Infests in every brain location, Fills up with protein alloys. It shows reflections all mishapen, The shadows blinking in response— To every reader it has happened, Poetic trail of broken bones. My muse has cursed me with the virus, But I must not let it to spread, My bloodshot eye, uneven iris Is trembling, slowly turning red. In every word I’ve ever drafted— A part of my poetic soul, Necrotic stanzas stitched and grafted, Disease misfolding every scroll. Just one more draft until I vanish And leave the questions in the air, From mortal plane forever banished For writing poetry-malware. I bleed on page, the quill’s on fire, The lyre is untuned to scream; Each single poem—a tripwire, Contaminating your bloodstream.