Spreading like covid
your words it infects
Through vowels into consonants
each phrase it subjects
No drug can divert
fated spores on the wind
Arriving like locusts
attacking within
The Muse has been stricken
her voice it impales
While spreading to others
each time you exhale
The body count deepens
your messaging damned
No cure in the offing
— dead silence at hand
(Dreamsleep: December, 2025)
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Author:
Kurt Philip Behm (
Offline) - Published: December 26th, 2025 09:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments3
Kurt this strikes me as a poem spreading its spores where they grow in other places. Nicely crafted as always
Thanks, may it never happen to you.
I believe it has and so be it. I was once told that copying is the highest form of flattery
I started a book years ago about knock-offs (Watches, Hand bags, Scarves, Ready To Wear) with that title ... 'The Highest Form Of Flattery.' I've personally seen VERY WELL HEELED women on the train coming back to Philadelphia from New York, bragging about, and showing off, their knock-off Fendi, Prada, and Louis Vuitton bags.
Reading this makes me think about how easily rhetoric spreads and how hard it is to stop once it’s loose. I connect with that sense of helplessness when harm keeps multiplying long after intention is gone. It’s unsettling in a necessary way. Well done! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks again, TR.
You are most welcome, Kurt!
Good write, Kurt. I suspect this has been true from the beginning.
Happy New Year, Kurt.
Thanks, and the very best to you, Jerry.
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