"Diseased Campaign" Poem by Victoria Grace

Diseased Campaign

(Courtesy of DiamondHead Photo Art)

My dream is of new nights

embracing

bodies

of purpose.

For most,

there aren't any dreams,

only dead memories,

and the presence of poison

inflicting

universal flesh,

leaving the dying 

to their waste;

the lost to their laughter.

Memory by itself 

I think,

is not important anymore--

because 

this existence

turns out

to not be 

what it seems.

On either day,

I can't tell 

if

hazy

fading

stars

are burying us

or 

whether

we've done that

all on our own.

It doesn't matter

what grows 

from patches 

of

tired soil.

We've slid into 

the far out lights--

been undone,

and spoiled.