The Wandering Sickness


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Jeffrey DeCristofaro

I'm lonely, punished for my kills.

There was no battlefield without a cure,
Which I pray for every night,
To free me from my misery.

I hitch to crows that flap and screech,
Cling to rodents that scuttle and squeak,
And reside in leftovers salvaged by beetles day and night.

What a lovely place for me to possess:
Bones of conquered kings and queens still reach out,
Begging to be saved from fate received.

There are no more quarantine zones.
Immunity is a memory,
Cure a fairy-tale word.

I drank beyond my need,
More than any child from mother's breast.

There are very few warm souls to taste,
And the only song is that of the wind,
Which continues to blow over land and sea,
And spread me,
Butter on moldy bread.

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About the Author - Jeffrey DeCristofaro


Jeffrey DeCristofaro

Contact Jeffrey DeCristofaro:
We Art The People
(828)545-5968
www.alienscribe.deviantart.com

Learn more about Jeffrey.


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