Here, I stand against the wind,
With a crown of pulp and a quill in hand,
Clinging to these notions I've yet to brand
Upon my feeble skin;
These inspirations, most stinging a bit,
Poking and prodding, inoculating the sac
With a course and a map and a cache of the past
And a pinch of grit intermixed;
Cavities swollen in this heart, in this...