Traverse Dirt

My soul is dirty,
just like this mouth full of trash I ate,
this smelling garbage festers.
Finding hold within, inside with all due contrived statements.
There isn't room for debate
or much to say as the song castrates itself
over the sicking bass.

Every dying wish over this pain,
all the half baked theories
fall apart and sink in this drain,
this livid gutter of broken promise,
as the perceived mercy kills itself.

The lungs contract and fight for air
as it sucks in the pollution
and sky glows in dark hues of orange and
batter crimson cancer.

The news is that it is old,
metaphor piled on top of metaphor,
laying with each other in tattered piles.
It can contrive itself.
It can build itself.
It can find itself, as lost within as without.

A festering mass of vermin,
it is well.
A growing sense of vertigo,
it is well.
Deep breaths followed by contrived statements.
It is well.

Flittering with a flutter these thoughts descend
like hordes of scavenging flies
malice in their festering thoughts.

Optimism doth rot when left by itself,
if not for hope what would there be in and within itself?