Autoimmune disease is the most intimate
of civil wars.
Microcosms of mindless violence
beneath the skin;
This corporeal coup
is all terror and tissue,
tensions inflamed.

It is factions of self in opposition,
an embodied dissonance
with no aim but breathless destruction.
There is no battle cry or bloody logic;
It is a silent,
seeping,
unholy revolution.
Vengeance for a crime never committed;
Fierce extremism without a sacred text;
An enemy merely by proximity.

To conquer one’s own is not a victory,
but a private betrayal,
a fruitless devastation.
Laws of nature are disavowed,
rejecting self-propagation.

If the body cares not for itself,
who would care for it?
What is the use
of wasted breath?
Perhaps this proves the impossibility
of tenderness, tranquility.
Fated for unceasing vigilance.

Finally, no hope of reinforcement,
dust settles to the ground
like powdered bone.
The walls are scarred, defiled,
painted with the stress of yesterday.
Silence drifts
in the altar of this body,
cracked and crumbling.
Who, now,
would repair it?