The White Plague has us in thrall:
Back at the Castle, war is raging.
The pilgrim is safely back from
venomous enlightenment, now
He lives the life of a civilian, inside
the city under siege, bound by karma,
Defeated every day by the urges of
Body and Soul of his and other fools.
The White Plague rages, turning
Soft bodies into vampires, eyes
greedy with a need for more gold,
aglow in an ever-darkening world
Our eyes turning to ember screens,
Waving shame like feathers, riding
false waves of pretend immortality;
pneumatic, sore, with a deathly urge.