Of my,
Later years,
Defecation seems,
To cleanse my soul,
It always forces me,
To face the fact,
Of my arrogant pride,
Sitting there vulnerable,
With legs spread wide,
Genitals once strong,
So slick and clean,
A potent force,
Always ready to strike,
But now simply asleep,
Nothing but,
A leaking faucet,
An appendage,
A simple piece,
Of dangling flesh,
Held captive at the groin,
Lifelessly forced,
To endure,
The remnants,
Of my own,
Stinking bowels.
