The soles of my feet regress in off meter puddles of riff sediment,
torn from a decaying edifice of brick and mortar, born from the arms of abhorrent traitors,
scoundrels that traipse the fecund artifices of weary desolation in turmoil’s trusted crevice.
I am the bomb shelter crematorium that winces in sublime agony through the subterfuge of this
Socratic garden outside the ephemeral round table of justifiers. I am not just.
I am loose in trespassed soil on a blasting furnace fired in agony,
verified on a damaged cyclone street in charred elliptic revulsion. I am potent.
Volatile in all aspects. I am resurgent.
I am the watch dropped in the woods that ticks for the hour of its last remonstrance of futile animation.- Sinz