BY DR. AGONSON
Wandering, wandering, wandering I’m
searching, I am searching for any sign,
a scent of blood, or taste of meat, to sate
this driving, driving hungry pining state.
Roaming, roaming, roaming desolate waste.
Wanting, desiring an unknown place.
Nothing is known by me, or seen or said,
for I am—I am—of the living dead.
Memories, memories, memories play
trinkets and knickknacks all try to convey
a man who was of pink flesh and red life
terminated, terminated in strife.
Onward, onward, onward my path is hewn.
Staggering, staggering as a drunk swoons.
Every step I take is bursting in pain.
Fury building fury like dreadful flame.
Darkness, blackness, in solitude I hide.
Hunkering, cowering I’m lost inside
this invading need, this wanton virus,
spreading, spreading to every one of us.