There’s a filth
that establishes grounds
in and and all beings
of its choice.
It preaches atrophy,
and I exist stuck in motion.
Could the pursuit be real
when elegance isn’t the goal,
or do those who chase
fall into their own
ditches of waste.
Torn apart
just so I can be put back together
again
and maybe be reminded
of my own voice
in the process.
What of it
when the world fails?
When my green-coated
badge of honor
fails to please
I ache for what won’t put me at ease.
Retrospect is all I’ll ever know
when I tear the sky
hoping to take on new heights
but they were never meant to be mine.
Damn the quest.
When desire dies
my spirit can turn
and no longer be blind.