The world we know is a
flower.
Immaculate,
And red,
Like weeping,
Its stem rises from the vast,
Infertile faliure of waste.
Even the bath water is tinged yellow now,
Like piss and cowardice.
All of the waste is contrived
in the guts of men,
Sated,
And incurious.
All of the waste is contrived
in society's tangled,
Growling bowels,
And the air is thick with it now.
What is a man to do
when nothing is created but waste,
And everything is burned
in pyres,
Like dead emperors?