A repugnant aroma wafts cantankerously through the almost sacrosanct purlieus
Tis the smell of my own flesh and sweat that are killing me.
Materialism rears its ugly head doing her bit to stain the milieu.
And so I sit and stare inevitability in the face with the eyes that see
Meekness, in all her mildness has long since jumped ship
Dexterity, arcana, will and whim now all lack quip
These stanzas form no shape, no certainty no mien
Yet the words splutter fort as if hurled from hands unseen
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