The Growth of Decay

Words that ensnare my wretchedness
In barbed-wire woven nets,
Like plows of steely hooks
Driven relentless
across this tenuous mind.
Stony fields tilled of self-loathing,
Bear dreaded crops bathed in oily tears.
Jagged seeds cultivate in sorrow,
Soon sprouting through
A cracked and broken skin.

I witness the judgement,
My conviction of their condemnation;
My harvest.
Black swollen blooms of blood-tinged blame,
My body anointed in their ashen petals.
I am the refuse no fire can purify,
A discarded rejection of love,
A barren wanderer,
A sullen testament to nothing.

The feeling passes;
A cycle of shame complete.
The season sets.
Again.