At first my eyes can not believe
     the colours on display.
Green and red—blue so vibrant—
     mixed with gold and grey.
My mind is tricked with hues so bold;
     the room betrays it's treasure.
The dark and swollen outer walls
     conceal a lifetime's pleasure.

From floor to ceiling, and in between,
     the liquid colour runs,
blinding all my senses,
     like a million of our suns.
Great pools of hue lie stricken there,
     now clotting on their own;
no one to pay attention,
     whilst they slowly die alone.

The towers—some have fallen—
     scream forth from under dust.
Just as a flame from lamp doth cry,
     when fire burns with lust.
Yet some remain still standing there;
     they tower over me.
Like a watchman manning lookout,
     making search for escapee.

The bricks that make these towers tall
     contain a beating heart.
literature of structure:
     spines of dual rampart.
Inside each page of every book
     a story lies in wait;
a tale of man becoming—
     or a tale of love and hate.

"I've never seen so many books",
     I stutter in surprise.
And all at once I catch a glimpse
     of sparkle in her eyes.
Before two strangers thrust together;
     no clue to each's own.
Yet now a common interest grows:
     a solid cornerstone.

"They're from the curing; every one,"
     she says with voice of fact.
I simply cannot take it in.
     How many here are stacked?
"But who would put them underground?"
     I ask; I do not know.
She looks surprised then satisfied;
     my mind is clearly slow.

"The Curing," she restates with fervour,
     "Did you hit your head?"
And as I turn I see she breaks in half
     a loaf of bread.
My nose begins to tingle
     as the odour's recognised.
And from said loaf my eyes won't budge;
     as if I'm hypnotised.

The bread is placed on china plate
     and sits there all majestic.
A royal, regal King upon
     a throne of air domestic.
She offers me with silent nod,
     the nourishment I seek.
Food to quench my aching pains,
     and tend to my physique.

I start to scoff then stop at once,
     each morsel I take stock.
Each bite to me a slice of key,
     for satisfaction's lock.
My stomach growls as food is found—
     at last the sweet release.
The pangs I've felt for moments long
     begin to fade and cease.

And when my hunger's sated,
     above, I see her face:
a litany of kindness,
     a multitude of grace.
As if she were an angel—
     here for just a day.
An angel of the Lord I trust,
     and from Him, never stray.

"The Curing?" I enquire,
     once my need to eat is met.
"I'm afraid I haven't heard the term;
     not one I would forget"
"You know how all this started?"
     she asks amid her gestures.
She seems a trifle angry
     as her face shows wrinkled textures.

She tells me of a weapon—
     designed to main and kill.
A virus with no antidote:
     a pain without a pill.
This dreadful beast was hence un-caged
     and changed: she said 'mutated'.
But she's using words I do not know;
     that on my ears are wasted.

The monster broke its shackles:
     free to roam the Earth.
Ravaging the peoples
     with the smiles of evil mirth.
The people fell quite slowly
     and though they tried to mount defence,
too often they broke sound advice—
     ignoring common sense.

The evil beast contagious
     would betray a couple's love.
As they kissed each other for the night—
     as tender as a dove.
But in he'd swoop—that bird of prey,
     lurking in the dark.
As a journey into certain death,
     the pair would disembark.

Perhaps they knew already:
     one half of rite conclusion.
And to the end they'd ride by side—
     a union in seclusion.
Whatever thoughts the dead becoming,
     into their minds did pack;
the one they never dreamed to think
     was that they might come back.

"Were you there?" I ask. She shakes her head.
     A tear forms in her eye—
A nascent indication
     of events that passed her by.
"Sometimes I wish that I had been
     one of the first to go:
An unsuspecting citizen",
     her voice is soft and low.

She changes track and fleshes out
     the sad and sordid tale;
of how the virus was designed
     and the wind that filled its sail.
"It wasn't meant to kill us all",
     she starts to sob and choke.
And then she drops the shell I feared—
     and my anger taints the smoke.

"They planned to cleanse us. Everyone
     who didn't match their genes".
She tells me of their hatred
     and the hunt to find vaccines.
The human race was weaker
     than this evil force had guessed.
And this gene had joined with other ones,
     reborn and coalesced.

I start to understand her words:
     I begin to get the gist.
But every now and then we stop
     to recap what I've missed.
We talk and talk for hours on end
     until my very throat is hoarse.
And now I see how deep her strength—
     how deep her driving force.

She fights against extinction:
     a cruel, ironic fate;
That everything that lives should die,
     but the dead be less sedate.
Her push to keep on living;
     a thorn in evil's side.
She's resolute and steadfast—
     a soldier, qualified.

Yet here she sits down on the floor,
     the strongest girl I know.
Her figure in the softest light
     breathes fire on ground below.
A very gentle outline,
     so feint is all I see,
as the candles burning on the stand,
     all dance in harmony.

We're silent now, the city sleeps;
     the dead in hibernation.
No sound can penetrate the walls;
     a muted indignation.
A hail of bullets hit the floor—
     her tears I hear them rapping.
Each drop, enslaved of gravity,
     like a sullen choir clapping.

I'm torn between my options;
     for I know not what to do.
I could surely try to comfort her—
     would she my actions misconstrue?
I extend an arm then pull it back;
     I feel my heart is sinking,
and mutter just "I'm sorry",
     until my brain refrains from thinking.

I throw my arms around her
     and embrace her like a child.
Have I ever been so reckless?
     Have I ever been so wild?
She doesn't pull away from me,
     not like I thought she may.
I wait to feel her body's warmth,
     as I did just yesterday.

Yet today the warmth is absent,
     and her skin is rather cool.
As she sobs away the pain
     with tiny gasps so minuscule.
Her hair so gently brushes past
     my cheeks—a crimson shade.
I'm thankful for the shadows;
     for this hue I'd ne'er abrade.

I hold her till her tears cease—
     she lays down on the floor.
I hear her slip to Slumberland
     with a gentle restful snore.
I know not where I've come from;
     my mind is still a haze.
But to her I feel that I am lost,
     and my heart is set ablaze.

A patchwork knitted blanket draped,
     upon a chaise stands near—
I place upon her sleeping frame
     to guard from atmosphere.
And I with stories racing and
     a mind not firing best,
lay myself on blanket near
     and bequeath myself to rest.