It’s a taste on the tongue like peppermint
As invasive on the sinuses as mothballs,
It’s the precision of a samurai sword across a palm,
With the brutality of a gladius twisting against ribs
More infectious than the black death,
And no cure to stop.
GL HF my friend,
For we are all claimed by something,
And one by it every forty seconds.

It’s a pain in the mind, you see.