entangled,

     engorged,

         sinking deeper still;

how vile,

        this filth,

               of feeling I’d love to ****;

this mixing,

       this swirling,

               dirt of this and that;

the bed which I’ve made,

                for years I have sat.

Bubbling to the surface,

                     this slow steady beat;

drums pounding faster,

                     liquid churning heat;

the outburst,

      the song,

          the explosion,

                    the noise;

the endless expression,

                       timeless attempted poise.