I HAVE BECOME A
Having no longer anywhere to go, doctor, I
beseech you to listen : I am lost and wandering
again. I have become an alcoholic of words,
a staggering buffoon with but a mouth of iron.
Lost in a cage, I have nothing to say. My
religion is a tinfoil charade.
This cat o'nine tails I have been given is made
to whip the holder, made to slam the drudge,
left to break the broken user. Whatever I do
bears echoes that come back to haunt. I
wish for love and goodness, though to
no avail. I am gaunt. Tired. Worn.
I'll sit here for as long as it may take but I
really need a cure : send me something and
quickly. Rectitude is a long Roman toga.
Some wear to parties. I wear for sure.