The Sickness

There’s a sickness in me.
Deep down,
Clawing through my throat.
Admiration is certainly earned through his speed of procreation;
I can’t spread quite so quickly.
Or perhaps I just need to hone myself,
Sharpen my tools-at-hand.
Perfect myself into an efficient mental machine,
Infiltrating the barricades of other men’s immaterial castles,
Quietly dosing the sleeping kings and queens,
With encapsulated Truth.
The cure for their disease?
Why, it’s so simple!
Infect them with something stronger:
The perfect parasite.
That which forces the host to grow,
In order to continuously cultivate their energy.
Ideas feeding off Minds.
The best relationship life has found.
The greatest of the parasites that has cursed (perhaps blessed) this verdant Earth. This beast feeds on the souls of millions of peoples, millions of bodies. Perfection.

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