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Mud
There's a tangle of weeds
In my grassroot soul.
But rather than pluck them out
one by one.
I will grow out the good.
Dirt lay
Beneath the fingernails of yesterday.
But what we scratched
Is scraped already.
And already we pray for confetti and ticker-tape
To cover the mud we just tracked.
I daresay, kill the tile shine.
Throw buckets of gunk across the walls
And oil upon the soiled floor.
Then see how you slide across it.
It's when you're busy fabricating
Pristine mirages
That the devil slips in
Unnoticed
To chew away at corners
Of your screaming soul.
And the seeds of sin are planted
While you're dreaming up a way
To shed the 'human.'
