i n f e c t e d

there upon the wood pile
is a heart full of dusty, old ink
and if you watch careful like
you can see it beats
from time to time
a withered thing
it sprays out messages
with every wheezing pump

“i am”
“i matter”

words of the scared
blind and lost in the dark
shuddering with the throes of death

“should we cast it to the fire?”

but no…
we leave it where it is
that we might not become

i n f e c t e d

and lost in the same shadows

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