The Rot

Some years ago the Rot set in.

It began in a corner of the bedroom

following the birth of the second child.

It spread into the linen cupboard

and across the fabric of our lives.

Experts came to treat it.

Could not.

The Rot could not be stopped.

Dying now, we live with it.

The fungus grows.

It spreads across our faces.

We watch the smiles rot,

gestures crumble.

Diseased, we become the disease.

Part of the fungus.

The part that dreams. That feels pain.

We are condemned.

Things dying, that flaunt their dying,

that cannot hide, are demolished.

We will rot eachother no longer.

From the street outside

comes the sound of the drill,

as men, hungry for dust,

close in for the kill.