it slowly matriculates into your bloodstream.
Cuts off the blood flow to your extremities,
and numbs the sensations that they once felt so irreplaceable.
The disease drives into your brain.
Destroys the vivid things you keep stored in old film canisters.
Implodes your senses so that you smell
only the scents that have been contaminated
with the rancidness of decay.
Erases the wheel of color that your eyes
have pictured for your pleasantness,
and eliminates all of the auditory joy
that you've searched so long and hard for.
When it's at your heart, at your soul
you realize that it won't simply turn off the ignition.
Your motor will still run,
and your heart will still pump.
Except you won't want them to anymore.
You'll want that engine to explode,
for the cancer to consume the aching cells of your mangled body.
But when it finally does.
When finally the film canisters have been destroyed,
the pictures burned,
the sensations forgotten,
and the scents have dulled.
You can rejoice in your resurrection.
For the virus didn't kill you,
just remake you.
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