It grows in places
Left neglected
Like vines or weeds
or algae

Its spores are toxic
airborne
and quick to infect
like living dead

There is no cure
Instead
it runs through each emotion
leaving nothing in its wake

It is silent
malignant
growing in the quiet
expanding in the hollow recesses
between your ribs

There is nothing that can stop it
not the ink like ichor of apathy
not the lick and burn of anger
not the cutting cold of indifference

Instead it burrows
makes tunnels through reasonings
until all you're left with is
distant annoyance.