The indentured scribes
Who place their calligraphy nubs
To the parchment-like
Walls of my mind
Reach out
With their crooked and stained fingers
And attach firmly
To the stem of my brain.
In a painful cascade
Of ink,
The virus they write
Finds itself
In control of thought.
My body functions,
But separate, very separate,
From my mind.
Resting above the paper
In a grip every teacher would approve,
My pen and hand
Await their command.
The line is gummed up,
However,
The virus
Oozes thick black ink
From the nervous system.
What comes through
Is but a senseless signal.
The hand is no mind.
It cannot stop
The jerking of a feverish brain.
Out flow words
Of nonsensical derivation.
Cross-outs ought to follow,
Even the whole page tossed out,
But a sickly wax,
Blind belief in each word,
Prevents me
From seeing and amending
The mess.
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