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

Thursday Evening Post: 6.2.22

     The trouble to remember.      The trouble, to forget.      The bouts with doubts of purpose. The self service sided to identify. The inconceivable whys.