A wild wet wind ravages this January night
and legs sore from excema rage as a simile.
Herbal remedies bitter sweet I drink and think
to swallow down and liken as a new raw whisky.
In this battle I cannot complain of newness
and Yet there is a rant about cruel inheritance
Of genes distorted from twisted forebears,
that cause sleeping fingers to tear skin.
I weep not, nor pray for the lost long dead.
For these words are part of my cleansing,
a ridding from the liver to be emptied and
To be torn away by January's strong storm.
© MRL 25 - 01- 2012