Trapped

A lonely place, indeed.

It infects like a parasite,
Stealing all from its host.
Seeds of hope laced with genocide.
A pain that does hurt most.

Symbiotic will not exist,
Sapping the essence of.
Metastasizing like cancer,
It grows inside of me.

Author's Note

I often wonder if our writing is a direct reflection of our current mood. Side note: I am aware I broke the structure/format in the second stanza. This just "felt" right.