Fingers riddled with aging mold
Scrape on stones they pass.
Leaving behind little spores.
That roll into the grass.
Plague and famine spread like seeds
Growing into tendrils.
Snaking into wholesome homes.
Blooming up like petals.
Rot and age claim the weak
And caress the cheeks of young.
Sowing oats of grave misfortune.
Pips throwing out far flung.
Carry those who stood the trial
And lay them by the sea.
Hoping the sickness will wash away
And spare the rest that be.
Boils that are raising up
Like little milkweed blooms.
Signaling their inevitable fall.
To lie resting in a tomb.
An itch, a scrape, a redden gash
Infection in the masses.
Weeping wounds and unhealed cuts
From a million tiny lashes.
The masked man wanders in
Smelling of fresh cut lavender.
Standing over sickened babes
And bloated, blue cadaver.
Bring the cart and spare no horse
There's no knowing how it spread.
Silence falls into the square
As they carry out their dead.
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