Dire Need
What you are reading here is defenseless
and it means no offense, but it can’t
help itself. It invites criticism with
every excess word. Who does he think
he is, this first person narrator who has
written six lines so far and hasn’t
yet gotten to the point, but maybe
that is the point. For what are we
but sprinklings of fetid leaves,
a putrefied paraclete in dire need of
a muse injection. I’m backpedaling now
but what else is new. And here
we are, almost at the end. You
were expecting maybe a miracle?