The Illness Parole
Such a glorious day to be struck down -
Those whipped Latin endings can conquer
Other worlds for a few precious days.
Those tall thin gates, where gargoyles
Face inward, can preach to themselves
And murmur their spells, and guard
The unprepared for the onslaught.
And while I am gone, shining in tartan,
Fill the capillary halls with tales
Of my woe and whisper of adventures
In mist covered foothills, bearded, embattled,
The growling lamb. I will return, scarred,
Sour, but pregnant with character
To take my place among the mystics.