Your face, your look, your tongue
It all reeks of emptiness
Why pretend to be clean
As you leave behind a trail of dirt
with no recompense.
Your thoughts, your ideas, your vision
They all criss-cross a blurred line
The morning coffee filled with grinds
Awakens no truths
and no truths remain unearthed.
Your hue, your word, your song
They all cast a doubt
With no rain to carry it all away
The topsoil lies
drunk in its porridge of tarnish.