filth

soil
vesiculated through
the grooves of 
identity.
from where, once, one
arose,
caked between the edges-
a ledger 
of time so spent
the grace of decay,
intended in the way
has habitually happened-
and praise be, to the
utility,
the non-emoted repurpose,
the holy rot, made fuel,
of which a fool
thinks himself
deserving

One Comment Add yours

  1. Jaya Avendel says:

    I love the raw feels and natural imagery in this lyrical word-flow!

    Liked by 1 person

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