It comes in many forms, mutating to suit its demented need. A savage doomed to slowly consume itself in a frenzied attempt to extinguish the light, and yet in the right atmosphere it thrives. There is only one thing that can truly defeat it, a thing nearly all of us possess.
Like a poison miasma, it urges us to blind ourselves
With tools of perceived victory
Sharp and double-pronged, it laughs
At compassion, vitality, hope.
And seeps into the blood of lambs.
Like aerial spores, it sails
In the thermals of disorder
Compelled to kill and replace
A twisted buffet
Where the main course leaks venom
But instead of putting it down
The Taken reach for more
Corrosion and exploitation
Of our keepers of the future.
Like a strange, faceless man
With meat hooks in his hands
It snares and repeats threats in a whisper
Thoughts of glamour, adventure
Smother the truth, don’t let conscience come in
And wake them up from this enthralling nightmare.
Loathe those who speak the truth, it says
But lambs don’t understand the words
Just the message, the unattainable need.
Soon they don’t see anymore
Oozing red blinds their vision
And molds their hearts into quaking tumors
Can we pull them out or has it already eaten them alive?
Will they survive? Will we?
Is this up to me?
Does the poison ever fade and does the virus ever die?
Deep from the murk comes a sigh
Shallow, wheezy, resigned.
Hate has engulfed what you are
Just let go.
Wipe the blood away
And listen to what love will say.