Morbus

I.

I am a passenger in the shipwreck of time And a bizarre symptomology Has alit Upon my understaffed body As a vulture on a long awaited meal

And if you think this mode of expression Rules out poetry, I assent.

II.

And I invite you to supply a wretch Of your own With as impressive a salvo of symptoms To salute the world with And snatch despair from the imaginary Jaws of hope But for me, hope is a defective Firefly In a Stygian darkness

So please all your good pleaders Roll upward prayers on my Behalf.

That I might have some remission Somewhat somehow

And if not, then remember me while This my poem Is eminently forgettable And at this, this work declares Its end.