That horrid taste
is due to
the guts rotting,
turning sour
was like love
mistaken for instinct,
untraceable poison,
it seeps,
she weeps
and feels like the weak one
shaking under
the world.
But no.
That which once
quenched-
now toxifies
from inside out,
freely flowing in veins,
through valley's
lies in ruts
and where kisses
once planted
themselves,
now choking on weeds
telling herself
these
hold
the mud away
like selfish deeds
never survive
too long
now
tallest
in the forgotten fields
she chokes
on the view
and knew
this place
inside
was putrid.
Painting by Pierre Bonnard, 'Dining Room in the Country' c. 1913 in [Public domain].
