Blown cracked
the bone of contention
split in two
each shard searing the sheet of calm
the broth
its murky mixture
stirred in the stench of disagreement
odours that clamp the nostrils
stop the breath

gasping
we grasp at dripping black branches
that close in above us
as we sink slowly into the quagmire
and disappear without trace
into the abyss of despair  

Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th January 2016