East Of The Wall
a functional tumor
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The visage crumbled, but ignore the wreckage.
Itâs worth was loaned.
As with mange brought by the flea, as with stares brought by the gangly,
Weâre all marked by the path of our births.
As with mange brought by the flea, like the call of the unclean,
We've been pulled, and the only direction is down.
The reek of our kin betrays the stain weâve hid.
Iâm the hold. Iâm a mark, a lock.
I wouldnât have lost my breath for lack of a cause.
Good god, I couldnât break free in time from the grasps of stragglers.
Grounded and shamed, dragged kicking back through the dirt.
Weâre all marked. Always.