|May 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Two|
|Future without Cure
Picking a scab forces the infection to seep freely.
I blindly tug at these blood soaked restraints
and stifle tears that will suffer not to fall.
Now is the time for being naked;
to let loose angry ghosts
into the swamp-like corridors of my brain
to fester and foster hope.
My body quivers and shakes.
My head is a drum–
I am trapped in its soft suffocation.
I lust for every breath of air.