The chronic, liquefactive necrosis of lost love.
Except the immortal soul carries on,
with all its accumulated scars and cavities.
Whose soul is upon my life, to weigh so
heavily the inflammation of loneliness, and
the catastrophic ischemia of death and misery.
These ears still work, hearing whispers,
drawn out of solitude into isolation, whispers,
from them, whose lives the world did not seek justice.
This soul will carry on with the newly immortalized
swarm of parasitic, phagocytic demons, and
upon the new life, the swarm will descend,
carrying all their storied memories of panic,
in granules spewing, infiltrating every organ,
until the barrier to the mind is eroded,
where a new life can be haunted by my soul.