Mind and Matter
Grey hairs betray me, hitting the warm floor.
Shall I begin to shave away the rest,
would it not be until my roots are sore
and I am balding before we know best.
Tourniquet tied around my life too tight,
perhaps my veins will pop under the stress,
bleed this poison over my skin tonight
into the cracks and heal, but I digress,
my arm attacked by a single needle,
victory tubes connecting to blister
packs full of deadly venom by treadle.
A pound self-shaving station at Lister
asks if I will handle the blade myself,
and ceasefire against my terminal health.
