Bubonic Sound

One of my surrealistic poems

From tattered edges

of a mind unbound,

comes a vernacular plague,

of deathly napalmic sound.

It spreads like wildfire,

it's hunger knows no

bounds.

Taking music and color

with it,

leaving not an ounce,

and all those who hear it,

are reduced to violent

nothings,

bleeding black tears

on the ground.