Culture

Drunk in its porridge of tarnish

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It’s soiled

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.

 

It’s muddy

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.

 

It’s bleak

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.

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