The Roots Of Rot

We are a kind that worships cures.

Cures for hunger.

Cures for loneliness.

Cures for meaning.

As if plaster could fix the fracture of the world,

as if a smile could silence the bleeding sky.

We measure hope in prescriptions,

dose despair in milligrams,

and call it science

though it is nothing more than a prayer recited in laboratories

instead of temples.

We’ve always been obsessed with endings,

never origins.

Cures soothe the fever,

but never the infection.

They stitch bandages onto bullet holes,

call it peace.

They erect statues to bury history,

call it progress.

They post condolences on timelines,

call it empathy.

The cause is an old ghost,

a shadow we refuse to look at

because the cause is us.

Our hunger for invention that devours restraint.

Our greed carved into bone like inheritance.

Our habit of naming poisons as progress.

We are the infection we cannot disinfect,

the chaos too intimate to evade.

We romanticize cures,

write elegies for miracles,

sell salvation in plastic bottles,

and kneel before healers

as if they were new-age prophets.

But the body knows what the mind denies:

the cure is a camouflage,

a brief negotiation with inevitability.

Because the end was never meant to be postponed.

It was always meant to arrive.

And so we patch, we mend, we medicate,

while the root festers in silence.

Call it science, call it faith, call it denial, 

names are but syntaxes to distract from the actualities.

Cures treat the symptom.

The cause remains untouched.

The cause, unlike us

doesn’t just survive.

It waits.

It remembers.

It owns us.

In the end

we are but slaves to cures

so we don't have to admit

being the cancer of the causes.