The bulging black boil
that bursts
spewing spurts
of yellow viscus
poison liquid.

The pulsing throb
of fevered flesh
that spreads it
dark veins
across itself
like a sick spider web.

The tight tendrils
that throttle your throat
till you cough and choke
spitting out your own
saliva.

The foreign feel
of that strange
and sad
forever fatigue
that beckons you to sleep.

The last look taken
as nothing consumes
the consciousness
that once bloomed,
and thoughts of pain
no longer trouble
that particular brain.