I UJltiUci, I^e .\ndrews
I
Poor,
Due
am I
but a poor man.
say, in
monetarv' terms
Brief respite within
Has only made me I
my door. my home
to the beast that lurks at
a restless boor.
can onK- imagine the poor drunkard
Whose spindly legs buckled Under the weight of the world. Within
mind words of beauty That God placed upon
Were
his spinning
the
Foundations untold.
Ba/u//u^/c
Vcn/(/[ Whitni McDonald
Ever\' sense in m\- bod\'
is
jolted
awake.
my vision. my nose. thrash my eardrum.
Clashing flashing colors abuse Rotting festering scents attack
Clanging banging noises Stingmg hzzing salt drips
in
m\' mouth.
Clamming crushing heat molests my Inside,
my
heart blasts cannon-fiery
As tuk-tuk horns and
whistles,
Dread-locked bums with
SaHron-robed Jostle past.
epistles.
gristle,
shoulders.
wonder
