The words the poet speaks need no acclaim,
They spread like tumors deep within the frame—
Unseen at first, yet growing all the same,
A truth that feeds where lies have staked their claim.
No grace in form, no mask to hide the scar,
No soothing tone to calm the public ear;

But when he speaks, the numb soul feels its barb, and conscience wakes to what it long held dear.
His name the fact, though lovers turn away,
Though bonds decay like cells the body kills.

He will not bend, nor wear a soft disguise—
He is the wound that truth alone fulfills.
So let him stand, infected, all alone:
He is what he is—the cancer that’s his own.