The song of a cotton wool ball. Part of a big, fluffy ball I was. Floating about, enjoying my likeness to the clouds. A small fluffy ball I became, Independent of the joys and fears Of this big blue world. You could call me Cottononimbus. A grasp. A rip. A hurl! What cruelty has seen me so hurt? A sea of red now forms a part on my snow-white being, Tarnishing my purity like the sins of a priest. I am a cotton wool mass. Everyone uses me to remove the tiniest bit of mess. Then leaves me to form my own mess. My friends the needles, plasters, catheters and other medical supply heroes have their own bins. Everyone. Everyone but me. Do I smell? Am I not good enough for any bin? Even the municipal bin? Am I hated more than a syringe? So let it be. Atop the surfaces I shall quietly sit. Disease I shall slowly spread. Until someone tells me Where I belong. This prose stems from noticing how after each skin prick, there's a random cotton wool ball that remains unbinned after a proced
Our truths are different, yet similar.