A prion.
A parasite.
A writhing mass.

It is woven into one,
not by needle,
nor machine,
but by absence.

It is kind.
It destroys the mind.
It seeks a way.
Yet hated it remains.

Silently within,
pulsating with darkness,
twisting with curiosity,
it craves mercy.

A decay and a rot,
one not of flesh and bone.
This is one of isolation,
this is being alone.