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That, unitchable, scratch.
This, abominable, sense, of yearning.

The setting, of Ignatius, upon, a thatch.
Yet, even, cataclysmic floods,
didn’t douse, the unrelented burning,
for, odious and loathsome, goods.

That, monkey, clasping onto, a back.
This, sour crabapple, bitten, for the gurning.

Fruit flies, swarm around, use-by-dates-past.
Tasting riper, than, Stygian buds.
Maggots embed, in scandalous skins, squirming.
As, oily shame, seperates, from curdled bloods.

That, fear, of firstly, coming down, for the last.
This, offer of being sated, that is drier, for the spurning.

Saturation, is, just, about, the only thing, that is, lacked.
An idea, stuck, sinking, in the clinging muds.
The verdict’s in. Been caught. And, there is, no, adjourning.
Weighed down, at the gavel, by, unsentenced, “should”s.

That, one wish, that, fell-off, the starry mast.
This, uniform of stripes, worn for, elliptical, turning…

The unhatched egg, that is craving, to be. Cracked.
Despite, the inevitable ending. Thuds.
The yolk’s eyes, are; yielded, yellow and blurring,
a yoke, unwing-ed, foul, hungers to fly, high, from, unturning hubs.

© poormansdreams

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