Blood is churning ever slow,
My impotent moan is growing tall.
Yet, lights and sound are deeply vibrant
In the clear mist of London air;
I would say I'm blessed with life
If not the heavy ball of mud inside
That grew from spores of this dirty light.
Insane, death is weaved throughout.
Must I fade inside and out?
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Comments about this poem (Mud by Seer Garth )
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