The Father scoffs
A mother presses her hand to her brow thinking
What have I done wrong?
It is a disease some say,
A curse to foretell poverty, till
Nothing left but the mice to play with
In an abandoned attic
Filled with boxes and no light

Nine Tenths end up in the loony bin, adds
Aunt Morgan,
Oh what a woman to comment, with three divorced husbands
The forth lying to her face,
She, to criticize with a sneer
However
There lies a particle of truth in their
Calculations of horror,
That the penchant for poetry, like a virus
Seizes its owner, shaking him half dead
Demanding the first fruits of midnight ruminations
No thought alone to dwell in peace
The buzz of television is but a cover
For the workings of the brain
In eternal silence, in prolonged time
Encapsulated by the desire
To pave reality for another young mind; A curious incident
Of viral replication.