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by Nevada Kerr

Every which way I turn
In this quest for a name
There's a fist on my lips
In the hurricane rain

I got a curdling taste
Of the affluent cream
Dead on my feet
In an invalid's dream

Bristling thistles
Of snickering grief
Should I grab for the prize
Or the fear in your eyes

Gristle and bone
In a murky stream
I'm vapor and steam

Frayed and splayed
In my tailored vest
A hooligan reeling
With a zeal to invest

Wasting away
In this feathered nest
I'm hardly a man
Much less the best

Written by © Raven Drake
August 1, 2005.

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Created: May 2005 © Paul Kinder Last Updated: 12/8/05