Pestilence stalks the hospital corridors, 
frail and pallid as every other half-dead thing around him. 
He pours illness into the tiles and slathers it 
like paint across the stark white walls, 
wheezing a feeble laugh that would be sinister 
if it weren’t so decrepit.

War haunts the law firms,
pressed three-piece suit tailored to perfection.
He is the reason for the palpable sting of separation—
estates and history and children and love
split right down the middle, 
as if along the crack of a broken heart.

Famine curls up on a dirty sidewalk,
dirt covering his sunken skin
and a hole-filled blanket wrapped tightly around him.
His heart beats to the rhythm of 
street drumming and spare change, ma’am?
and the rattle of quarters in empty fast food cups.

Death glides proudly through the cemeteries,
drinking in the names on the headstones,
the tears of the mourners,
adding to his collection of eternal conclusions.
He swallows grief like it’s an energy source,
black and bitter and so, so heavy.