Routing

It seems I have no choice;
plagued
by an
    abiding need to voice
                  each
    and every ailing inclination.
An outsider,
always middling, doubting worth,
debating aim and motive.

So, I stand, hungry but paralyzed,
stuck somewhere
                                                                                               between wit and
                                                                                                    wrath,
in
                                                                                                              indecision,
rendered helpless.

But, now the ground is shaking, and I'm no longer asking,
because infected,
                                                                                                            tainted (as
                                                                                                             aren't we all)
with imperfection,
my body still
                                deserves,
reserves,
the right to
fight.
Who, anyway,
           writes the final word on this?
Whose expectancy
                            is this?
Weight lifts, and flesh is rioting, building up a brand new day of reckoning.
The usual fearsome, shaking
        swallowed substance,
             like bile purges.
I am turning,
facing,
versed and sounding loud,
the indignation.
Intimate, no longer with
   the part of me you used.
Away from painted piety,
and your design,
I am routing my escape.

The Sunday Whirl