 Item number SCP-1092-RU Object Class Euclid Special Containment Procedures As of now, we have only approximate plans of containing the threat that this object presents. Anyone can become an unfortunate victim, doctors, postmen, or clerks. They can all get addicted. Anyone who has ever used rhythm or rhyme, all who trusted a pen with a piece of their mind, even those who've regarded their fondness for poems, none of them are immune, hence are all our worries. A continuous search for the possible traces is conducted in various digital spaces. Each suspicious verse prompts a rapid response, empty as for the amnestics and a bag for the corpse. Description Object 1092 is a powerful word that takes root in one's mind and in one's line of thought. Time and time and again it comes up in their lines, but it's visible only to uninfluenced eyes. Once exposed to the word, it will alter the pattern of expression and text. It gets broken and scattered. It's distorted and filled with unneeded additions. Its idea is now changed in the rhyming renditions. Since that moment the victim, unaware of the change, will be writing in verse, though words rearranged, to embellish the object to conceal the threat. It cannot be contained. We are left to protect. Every following verse is more powerful, moving. It's inflaming the listeners, always improving, and it spreads like a virus. It touches the souls, it enchants, it transforms, it infects, and it grows. This incredible gift is a curse wrapped its blessing. Its effects are untouched by the best of amnestics. With this talent there is but one way to unteach. Burn the author, along with their passionate speech. Addendum Our agents and staff had to be highly cautious, as containment requires most radical options, but despite our efforts and strict protocols, the disease worms its way into our reports. If a member of staff, stiff and callous inside, who does things by the book, never follows desires, cold and dry like a lawyer, and a stranger to passion, in a word, a true member of our great foundation. If they notice a page full of sensuous rhymes, but their heart remains still and their eyes remain dry, this event must be promptly reported above, so █████ and agents can remove the involved. Attachment Document 1092-RU-1 Interrupt from a journal kept by Test Subject D █████ A cardboard cover on the damp concrete floor, a gray, dingy cell with a hard metal door. My fingers are black with the mold from the walls, no name, only numbers on my overalls. If I wake up tomorrow, I've lived for four weeks, which is longer than any of the resident freaks. When I'm out in the hallway, I see others sometimes, though all their numbers are smaller than mine. This containment facility ain't really a jail, but there's plenty of stuff here to make your face pale, and sometimes in the night I hear bone-chilling screams, but they gave me a bed and they offered me meals. Weeks ago this strange dude made me read a few words, ever since it's been harder to focus my thoughts. Every evening he brings me a page in his case and he tells me the right. What about this place, he will say? How you feel? Anything is okay. Things are never that simple, whatever they say. New-it guy here assigned to scrub floors in a cell that would always give off his unsavory smell. There was him and two others, someone wink at the joke. They say something 110 is my buddy's new job. There are lots of white coats, but they're not here to heal, and the look in their eyes can get colder than steel. Though a nurse came this morning, nice woman I guess, asked about my dreams if I felt any stress. Saw her writing stuff down, something starting with D, then approved in her clipboard. What the hell could that be? Am I finally sick? Will they get me some meds? I'm a throwaway thing, no one cares how this ends. I've lived for so long, it's ridiculous really, but I just can't get rid of this terrible feeling, as if I'm a pig, fast asleep in a stable, while the folks at the house are setting the table. I am day after day here, it's all been a blur, they're stench in the labs, toxic pools on the floor, my memories hazy, they're fog in my brains, I see mold on the walls, on my skin, in my veins. I hear soundless singing in the depths of my skull, it's so cold, it's so dark, and the colors are dull. When I'm done with this page, I'll jump in my bed, wrap myself in a blanket distinct of old sweat, close my eyes, try to sleep, try ignoring the screams, and tomorrow I'll try to remember my dreams.