Your disease, they say, possesses its prey
then rots out your bones till they crumble to dust.
It stretches your canvas, tight to your frame,
with a few taught threads to hold you together.
Yes, under your tent, a circus pulses. Blown out
through your mouth are lunch and distrust.
But hidden away, backstage and below it,
are savages rustling. Their cages are rusting.
You are full of monsters, locked away tight—
frothing and raging under all your ceremonies.