It looks as if my heart is night.
Darker then the absence of light.
The taste is as if death cooked it himself.
The smell of miasma expelling forth
From my muscle beating.
                               Beating.
                               Beating just to keep alive the death.
However, I would had to be alive at one time to measure death.
Yet it has been so long since I can remember that.
My body feels cold and it grows still colder.
I can feel it spreading, and faster it goes when seen with condemning eyes.
My hands now black like ice on a road.
I attempt to remove the shallow grave from my hands,
But all I’m wearing is white and it’s spreading like wildfire.
Moving from the hidden into the visual sight.
I wear gloves to hid the grotesqueness, yet it bleeds through.
I have learned to except the fact of my situation.
All the pain it inflicts is in a certain sense something I'm use to,
And if it does leave I would not know how to be.
For it is my life to rid my life of such infliction,
But when, or if, I do I will have used up my existence
On that single fact and die from the inside out.
If I rid myself of the darkness there will be a hole.
A hole wider then can be filled by human measures;
Thus, my heart will fill with blood and drown itself.
I just need the idea of searching for a cure;
Not necessarily the cure itself.
Consequently, I will search to the end of the earth for a solution,
But in the back of my mind I know I shall never find.