Disease Of Destruction Poem by Beth Whittaker

There was a time when I thought
that words such as these could,
would save me from the death that blankets me in its darkness,
from the cold waters that limit my oxygen intake,
from the disease that rots everything to its core.

Words such as these
were windows in my lightless prison,
wings that let me fly away,
blood pure and red
without the distastefulness of a peeling scab or scar.
They were my freedom,
my survival.

Now they too,
captured by the disease I carry,
have decayed and gone.
They have lost their purpose,
their value,
their significance,
their originality.

They have gone and left me
scarred and in chains
at the bottom under cold waters' weight
where darkness grows
where death claims me as its own,
and denies me freedom yet again
despite all I have given.
Why must I beg for my freedom,
crawl on hands and knees?
I have given you everything I have ever owned
while most spare nothing.
It is not fair,
not right that I be denied,
but fair,
and right?
What do they matter down here?