But I wouldn’t be in the slightest inspired,
nor would my flesh spoil from the smallest of nicks,
like I’ve never taken a lick,
never taken a kick when I’m down,
been around,
found,
and been unsound of mind,
aching of body,
restless of heart,
anxiety filled with bursting liver rage,
and yet patient,
enjoying the parchment and blood,
still,
like a sage.
None of it without the bitter bile that spoils the meat,
steadies your hand,
tempers your knife,
suits you up,
to die with dignity,
and take a bite of this life.
W.E.
lonerloaner 