The bug of indifference had crawled inside them
and they died
monotonous deaths. Not the death of a star or an ember.
The death of a fearful and self-proclaimed hero.
A death of parched, desert-dry thirst
that all the water
in the world
could not wash away.
with speaking tongues
seek only to strip the flesh of things.
To wear it as an armor.
And feast on it
Thou shan’t take credit for infection.
It is not innate.
I will not honour your infection.
I will watch it steal your heart away.
copyright C. Ward 2006