The soldier at the top of the charts,
Waiting until it find the perfect victim to strike,
A victim to kill.
The soldier, the murder, the one with no guilt, no shame,
No thoughts, no regrets, no telling what is next.
All’s fine at first, don’t notice a thing.
The soldier getting in place,
Making it’s first move,
Attacking, stabbing the victim, some in places unheard,
Getting the victim weaker and weaker.
It begins with a cough, or a sneeze or two,
Possibly a fever.
Nothing seems wrong,
The cold or the flu,
Until your rushing to the hospital room.
The sighs are bad, nothing is good.
Life is slipping with no chance of it returning.
Was it too late?
Had the soldier won the battle already?
Not if he is caught too early.
He travels looking for the reason he came,
Once he finds it it’s a matter of time,
The matter of how long you can survive.
A week, a month, a few years at that,
Or a day of insanity.
Destroying the body, and loving it too.
He watches them suffer, he watches them cry,
He’s laughing inside.
It brings him joy,
But it’s time to pull the plug.
He found it. He found it.
He stabs and he slashes,
Unstoppable, Unbeatable,
Unreachable.
Finished.
The victim fights,
It fights and fights.
But the lymph nods dieing.
One by one, two by two,
All by all.
The victim’s losing.
The soldier’s retreating to watch the finally moments.
It was time for the victim to die.
The victim puts everything it’s got,
Until the body shuts down.
~Poemmac, Mac Morris
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