Sei ein Mann

That goading call flung

Like a horseshoe at my

Head. To wound, or better

Yet leave a stinking

Canker that rots in

Plain sight, repugnant

And vile.

I carry it close, the

White blood cells of

Rage look in, but it's too

Late, too much, too heavy

And it is lodged

In my breast and

Won't let me be

Resurgent.

And so I storm and

I writhe and I burn

And the roaming shadow

Wanders down into the

Thicket where the

Flesh is torn and the

Mud is soft and the

Berries sweet

A man would never be where

This man now is.

Tattered, beaten and clean-shorn.