Written on May 26th, 2025 for Constance La France's Breathless Poetry Contest "Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Breathless, words like cordyceps adhere to my throat, Choking me as the unspoken wrap around, seizing vocal cords. Sticking fingers down, I claw to clear closing airways, Yet the more I struggle, the more entwined they become. Disconsolate spores have taken root within heaving lungs, Spreading to each chamber of the heart, systematically. Transported through streams of hemoglobin, Swiftly infecting Broca's area before moving to the primary motor cortex— As all speech ceases to be.
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Written on May 26th, 2025 for Constance La France's Breathless Poetry Contest "Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow