I try to refrain but retch
And my thoughts splatter the paper

True conversation, simple as
The twig caught up in our river
Meandering along
Strips us of the shell they covet
Within layers of their own
Shining opaque splendor
A beautiful visage
That disturbs even the casual passerby

We are not the first ones.

Careless escapists frequent our haven
And their troubles vanish
As ours ooze from our pores
A vile sludge that falls and
Squelches between toes
Leaving us clean, relatively speaking

Upon our exit, we scoop up some of the stuff
And fit it back inside
Determined, the impure
Resolved, the imperfect
To sink further
Into the madness