We fear the pit do we not you and I?
We call it bottomless and fill it with lie.
Scoured cravings of extinct
species long dazed
dark eons quickly crazed
so many rats in a tank.
Tasting my own entropy
at the tip of the pit
peering in seeing slit
Pit of embroiled forgotten gossip
hole of discarding the shiny in the dross.
No want in this void
far less than emptiness
tumbled to fecundity
laced with clairvoyance.
Writhing in the pit, pulsed muff
born out of the pit, individuals.
I was a moon brushed up
against seaweed maelstrom
worth a few flushed coins.
Sheol is makeshift and forgives the skeptical
single and disowned puckered character.
I was a bedridden prodigal
smudged theory of bone
not willing to stay alone
I spoke to the pit’s glottis.
Under that stone under all slid strata
I was not detailed I was not chromatic.
In the pit without a face
I did not see families
I discerned no enemies
of myself I saw no trace.
Further in and shed of anger
stripped of futility I was spit
where wherewithal undefilable
sits in voiceless spent danger.
We are Phoebus and Phlegm
the pit and I, Spleen and Janus
amber of flame, eye of anus
the pit is all and none of them.
The pit spoiled, divested and digested me
and I was saved from self-destiny.