Wound of a Cantankerous


who will help me,
who is around to help,
who shall help me,
nurse this wound? 

I am ill—
sought to me is my terrible;
floating deep in me is this wound,
and with nobody to nurse it.

Temper boils under less coals of provocations;
heart inflated with crude emotions,
temper in a drying furnace—
wound so homongous reddened.

As I battle to defeat this cancer;
locked up in chains by this ailment,
I pray ears and eyes see me—
that I may be given help in
and psychological–
welfare to heal this wound. 

The Village Thinker © 2014


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