Then politics spilt its dirty milk
	  And still its deadly little tread
	  Marches across my wounded head,
Itching the sutures though of silk.

As though one caustic loss, relentless
	 In its riptide on my pride
	 Were not hurt enough, my side
Was laved in vinegar and piss.

The hand that'd helped now held my throat
	 As though to show me how naive
	 One ever was to believe
In friendship's blotting antidote.

So he fingered his own quaint cause
	 Until his heats gave fervid birth
	 To a dogmatic cross unearthed,
A cross whose crosshairs sought my source.

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Poems in pieces

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