by Nick Gisburne
The tempest boils, belligerent
A storm of tainted rain
The aromatic stench of it
Repulsive to my brain
Unable to perceive my path
I near the naked edge
Expecting death, my hands become
A cup, to fill, to pledge
There is no place I can belong
No future, bleak or bright
My twisted frame a blot, a smear
A clumsy, dark goodnight
