Uncoiling Cut

Idle time is an uncoiling cut, Carved by creeks of toil and rut, The water churns with arsenic tides, An ebb and flow of random crime. Wasted youth, the uncoiling cut, Is dug with doubt, lined with rust. In chiseled cracks where winds recede Flagrant scorn plants a seed. Absent hope, the uncoiling cut, Harbors guilt in the cavern's gut. Water falls through tattered seams, A dripping gorge of broken dreams. Idle time is an uncoiling cut, Carved by creeks of toil and rut, The water churns with arsenic tides, An ebb and flow of random rhyme.