His voice is cold as frozen snow
Heavy with poison, lies.
Our sessions have become mere fencing matches.
His questions are sharp, stinging;
I parry them with simple truths.
Theory is his only weapon;
Mine are experience, reality…
HE doesn’t stand a chance.
Had he stared, smelled or spit into the face of death I might
Allow him inside my wire…………
HE does not deserve to be there.
I view him with contempt and a strange pity,
Oftentimes I think of flushing that which contaminates my soul…
Give him what he feels he wants to know.
That would be too much shit;
He could not stay above it……
I chuckle at the thought.
©Copyright 2005 by Ed Orr