It is the parasite

I fear

that gives you such a rust for life,

that yellow complexion

under the hollow, shell like eyes,

your youthful frame in which was adored

Goddess like,

Helen of Troy fought over breasts,

the sweet beautiful sparkle

in brown eye shadow hint

and ruby lips,

now plunged into darkness,

the lights removed

and those lips, once

so beautiful to think of kissing,

now dead, spore driven and infectious from

your rust for life

of giving in,

of adhering to the past thirty

propaganda,

the information that plants a single

seed which germinates

and eats away at the soul, not on a

school night, no more, my beauty sleep

is required

and yet you were so beautiful

when you looked like at Hell at ten

in the morning because at the sound

of knocking off

you were alive,

radiant and alive,

special and so alive…

 

but now I cringe

in your celibate night out nun-like stance

as you reach for the rust for life;

your lips mottled grey

and patchwork red, silver fish

wrestling in blood.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015