THE BALANCE

The bloodful canivores,
Their cyclical work is blood and flesh.
They openly lust, tear and mutilate,
Are lusted, torn, mutilated,
In Innocence.

The placid browsers,
(Center of Universes)
So fitting their place in passive, slow wit.
So perfectly invited
For a hot-blooded death.

Foul flow! Protruding
Like wasted flesh in the prime of spring.
What damned spark energized
That attack conceives of
Black and White, and Devious Shades of Gray?
Mutant perception which triumphs
In imbecile profundity of the unperceived?

The Virus
Enters the system,
Devours it, and multiplies its decode.
The ultimate cell consumed,
Virus attacks virus...

The hapless mistake
Is spent.