Discontent spreads like a spill,
Red wine seeping under the sofa,
Soaking the fibres of the carpet,
Drenching the contents of your soul.
Or like mould, crusting at the creases
Of your being, creeping into the corners
Of who you think you are.
Panic rising, like bile,
Swallowed back until the poison
Can sear you no more
And gushes out, engulfing
Everything you thought you knew.