A strange furtive quake

For the virtual blind
there is nothing to touch
but the matter of mind
in its muchness of much.

For the virtuous dead
immortality calls
puts a price on your head
strings you up by the balls.

What remains is a yearn
for the ending of words
with a chemical burn
or political curds.

Should the hand of fate twist
when relieving this ache
your distress will be kissed
by a strange furtive quake.