Cleaning house locked them in a grating ache,
To be was to groan whether I stood, sat or knelt;
No matter, comes a day my bones, dry of pith,
Will stretch in the grave as the months and years flake,
Painless though eaten by mould like felt.
Already
my skin had given notice of wear
With
red cracking rashes and refusal to heal,My flesh become puffy as if struck by a belt;
No matter, comes a day my skull, plucked of hair,
Will grin in the grave and my rashed skin peel
From my corpse gone twisted and hard like a welt.
And
my acid-hot stomach and dust-sore eyes
Had
nuisanced my days with griping and stab,I felt like tumbleweed scorched on the veldt;
No matter, comes a day beyond gasps and cries
When I’ll house in the grave under a weed-thick slab
And my intestines and eyes will melt.
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©
June 2015