IS IT TRUE?
by Galaburda Cyril
My pulp was being sowed with seeds
Of trite and vapid pus
That run away in blood as beads
Of white capricious mass
While its necrotic bullet root
Already wedged in me.
And then my trouble wasn’t a coot
In such forbidding lee.
My skin deserted to disease
And left me pain, disgust.
There’s for creation passing cease
Because of crater dust.
7/27/2010