Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration.
Filth encrusted metaphors
burst like bog bubbles.
Fill my mind.
Sleek and killing similes
pounce through synapses.
Claws in brain.
All sing of fall,
of decay.
Of mud and grime
clinging to souls,
like guilt to a survivor.
Sometimes I sit,
and I ponder,
and I claw for inspiration
only to find
that these aren't true,
they can't be true,
or at least
they're only shadows
compared to the giant flame,
because the world
is always getting better.