Grime Poem by Guy Northam

The hill slopes down to where ambition lies -
Above it all, the ominous sky -

In and around that boggy ground
The hundred deaths of life are found -

Remorse and Ire, and Sin and Lust,
And all the rest, from rust to dust,

The incomplete and selfish mix,
The strangled soul, all wan and sick.

The body lies where it has lain
And putrefies to hide its shame.

The tangled swamp cannot be crossed;
Hope stretches out until all sight is lost.