They all sway,
drift to and fro
A new day:
Another home to these weird thoughts
I’m climbing
The rungs are rusted
From old habits
The doings I once trusted
But underneath,
the conniving, the despicable
such understatedly reprehensible
stick in the mud
Poking until brand new wounds form
And bleeding out bruises where tissue is worn
A stick in the mud I thought
Was buried deeper, and forswore to be
Done with