Infection

I thought I would be rid of you by now,
The fever would pass, the delerium quelled,
My lungs would be empty of your pneumonia,
The scent that enwraps you in invisible scarlet,
There would be no more chills to shake me,
Whenever I sense your slightest presence,
I thought to be done with this ailment by now
The madness that comes with heat and fever,
The coma of despair in the wake of your passing,
Never alone and yet solitary before me,
My blood cells filled with the gangrene of you,
Remnants of infectious passions that leave me
to sit on my bed penning this criminal confession,
And of course the disease remains oblivious,
For the cure bring more desolation,
Would shake my life from its careful balance
Ending in a burial that is all too real
I thought to have been cured in your absence,
But the infection of you again I feel.

Angemalo Benvolio

Copyright ?2002 Angemalo Benvolio