The Gongs
The soil digs a pit for us,
When the feet begin to stray;
And lungs smell the golden rust,
a little more black than grey.
Buried beneath voices barren,
Aloud-lighning’s thunders roar.
A pregnant tigress, deep within
these dirty waters are adored.
The tongue consumes the rotten crows,
there they nest, on the morrow lay;
When hatched, cometh soily plows
and spiders in rush and gay.
When then the naked eye treads,
Adorned with nets of holes, of strings;
It brings about the wasted
out the rough revealing springs.
A-sigh a precious body,
the dusts in the heart, but weep.
Warring songs of depravity–
they barely put the gongs to sleep.
Inner turmoil and conflicting desires
08/27/2021
© Katrinka A.U.
