Pollution
The prideful boast of bruises,
ingested by lurid carrion's grin
trim the passionate grit of
words left at the altar.
"You jest" I say.
I am no hero.
I am nothing,
but the burden of
a tremulous wake.
But the curve of your
lips corrupt my resolve,
and sting the ego of
a nauseated subconscious.
I've always hated
the way I break;
the cold shoulder
of my legacy's regret.
But you...
Quietly delve your
elegance into my
crooked beat,
smile at my misgivings,
Call my pollution, art.
-James Kelley 2014, All Rights Reserved.
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