Ill

A sickness is released, a disease. It swims through the air, clings to the food, poisons the water. It shuts down the body. It shuts me down slowly.

I am ill.

A plague is set forth, a sign. It rains fire, we burn with acid rain. Water is blood, painting something so pure with revenge, thick with red of spite. Locusts fly towards us in walls, shrouding the sun. Eclipsed by sin. Our fault.

We are ill.

A thief, a murderer, a molester are freed. He steals, greedy, like a snake. Quiet, sneaking, slithering, evil. He kills, bloody, infused with a virus. Plunges the knives, pulls the triggers, lights the matches. He is crazed. His hands, they grope, perverted, selfishly, but he is satisfied. He feels, moaning, pleasure sparks him. A sick, twisted, demented kind of pleasure, he loves. He is sick. All of them are.

They are ill.

Confusion has seeped into us all. It eats at our minds. Rabies, we are wild with fault. Hate, we are spiteful with revenge. Sorrow, we are grieved with personal pain. Fearful, we are petrified with judgment. We are all like this.

Every one of us is ill.