And In my wake, a stream obscene
Does stain the pavement ‘neath my shoes,
Like Neptune drowning Travertine-
From whence it flows I have no clues.
So onwards I, deflated, march,
Whilst fountain gushes, red as red.
The ground an island of debauch,
Where bloated roaches surface – dead.
In hopes escape might mend or cure,
I’ve tried to flee to lands off shore,
Yet senses don’t but amplify.
So, at a loss, before my grave
would fill with blood for me to bathe,
I long for something else to try.
Till answer’s found,
I’ll drift – unsound.
Jonathon Best 2016©
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