It can go on Apples,
Bread,
By itself.
You say it for a photograph,
One to place
On a shelf,
To be covered up by many books,
Words and thoughts
That some may know.
But it also sits within the fridge,
Taking time,
Little, to grow
Mold that could ****
One who tastes it,
Inadvertently, of course.
With all these questions
One could ask,
Are they ever on the source?
"Cows, silly,"
Comes the reply,
Simply, in a passive way.
And so it's settled,
And more is bought,
While another has a price to pay.

i
"It's over, isn't it?" You ask,
Unsure of what to do. Bask
In the glory of forgetting a
Fight, fulfilling what I would say,
Night coming to take me away,
For I cannot stay. Breakaway, nay,
My mind will not sway. Play
For the day I will say
And pray that I must get
Away. Away. Away. And never ask
In what way I did bask.

ii
But the words are cut short.

 iii
And someone else will die tonight,
This is simply the human plight.
We do not control, or know,
How we'll react to Death's scythe.*
Running up from behind, poked sides?
Charging headlong, blind, and teeth bright?
Or a chase, running shorts chafing?
But I have not finished wri-

iv
The fever is the cure, no?

v
I do not suffer, or
Make others suffer, yet
I am told that I am
Heartless, lack empathy,
Am mean. My rage speaks truth,
And the truth can help you.

vi
It's all in your head, right?

Is it really the old who smell?
Or do we smell to them?
We changed their world.
It's not that they have grown obsolete:
They now do not have as strong of a sway.
It is the newer generation.
The old do not smell.
It is the young who smell.
Smell, to cover up the influence of the old.
For we are the ones in control, not they.
They were, but are now no longer.
So instead, they watch. They watch as their world changes.
And their smell is covered.