No different from a plague.
Catastrophic with no source.
Words, assorted and maligned.
If my mind, a wiper?
I would scrub it free of charismatic, debris.
But that is not how the written is.
For mercenaries, such as, you and me.
Our phrases, a canvas, in which we set forth.
To poke, prod and perturb.
Such as, metal to an open nerve.
With poverty in every sentence, retained.
Words, words, and more words, forever, remain.