Wednesday, November 16, 2011



Soon I’ll be a fugitive
of my own skin, raw.
I’ve chosen the rare
sensation of  tainted
blood to outfit my
bow of thorns.  Today
I will not clutch a fist
in the wind’s sneer,
nor will I disenchant
my examiners. I will
wait for the postman
to deliver the world turning
from my rented attic;
wait for the headache
to ease, or go away
all together.

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