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Is For Worse For Better


Brent Fuller

A soliloquy of trophies
And provokes me
Its casts and catastrophes
Ill-prepare me

I walk just unarmored
Without ready ardor
Offenders include me
Catharsis entombs me

Method is mayhem
Metamorphosis never
Obligation perturbs me
We all scurry for cover

I peeled off my band-aids
Each one, by one
Too soon because Promise
Or too late if none

Rhymes canít plant seeds
They donít invoke creed
They mimic and mock
And squeeze out my need

In the pastures ahead
I scrape up the chaff
I make up my bed
I take up my staff

Thereís work in those furrows
And possibly time
To take on my meaning
In virtue made mine

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