Putrificient dregs, malodorous as ambergris,

pungent and stifling eyes, ears and nose,

rapt within this is what I see,

writhing wyrm is quelques choses,


this stench that left heavens heights desolate,

soul blown detritus,

recalcitrant and insolent,

like an alluvial fan within the abyss,


eternally, he serves his term,

impunity is not his bobble,

eviscerated; pours his germ,

within the murk a bloody bubble,


bereft of value,

none can be culled,

adrift in the flue,

lost and untold.



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