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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gYsJPGAfM98

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A black spot on an otherwise unblemished canvas - 

A map, pristine in its cartography,

Detailed, deliberate, delineating

Nations and borders,

Harbors and railroads,

Cities, communities,

The hallmarks of mankind.

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And there was a spot, dead in the center of it.

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A carcinogenic, oozing spot,

A fungal dysmorphia that corroded into the tapestry,

That made one ill to look at - a Shelleyan grotesque,

Tendrilled and prolific, a construction of

Human ambition

And articulated

Through the apertures of a corpse.

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To see it, was to see each inscription of the map

And imagine them being absorbed into ugliness.

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It was common sense to see it: 

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An otherwise unblemished map

Invaded by an apparent infection. But,

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                As I look, I realize

                It’d hardly been unblemished at all.

                And as I peer closer

                At the lines, calligraphy, the topographical

                Array - each mountain with a flag,  

                Each flag with its colors - 

                I can’t help but wonder at the spot,

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                    pondering, after its cause.

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