THE REBEL

 

                                                                         

The Rebel

 

 

The wine seeps onto your tongue like rain upon the dry plains,

Its bitter fruit takes away with it, at every sip, the deep stains

On your life like your inflamed colon, a testament or sign

Of your chronic illness – call it living.

 

Mind and gut in such close synchronicity that each step

You take comes with an apparent tremendous effort,

And you past caring now at the effects of the wine,

It being your last comfort, or solace, bringing you some relief

 

From the constant upset. Not at all trying to sound self-pitying,

These words of yours more a chronicle of your anxiety;

You being in the deep plains of middle age,

 

Estranged from all of your family and at war, practically,

With your own cuntry. Yet despite all of this, you still manage

To smile sardonically at the stain that you have managed to leave behind.