sickness and fear
haunt your face.
hate bubbles on your lips.
every imagined wound
shudders forth
in its plasticity and its bile.
better said
than not
even when the barbed flesh will never heal.
like some emetic Amfortas
ragged in your dressing gown
you cling
to your wayward right
to destroy.
intolerance and creativity
makes its bed of crimson joy
in those bloodied thoughts.
Vital
Pulsing with regret
The notes edge forth
Across the page
One last story to tell.
Gar Jones: February 2017