It is a real thing, a real deal,
Something words can't yet conceal.
You feel it sharp, you feel it hard,
It bursts in silence, leaves you scarred.
It can't be seen with naked eyes,
But felt through silence in the skies.
It's slow yet steady in its way,
Consuming you, burning you, day by day.
The shell may look normal and still,
But inside rots away—pungent and ill.
Beware the disease no one can trace,
You are alone in what you have to face.