Poetry: Decasia

by Patheresa Wells

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This poem was originally published in the Arcturus Literary Journal and is reprinted here by permission of the author.

There ain't nothing sweet smelling or pleasing to the palate here.
This poem is all that is discarded,
tossed aside,
Forgotten.

There ain't no salvaging of its parts.
No recycling it into
Another thought,
Another day.

This poem is stanky.
Not the kind your nose might like to linger on:
the funk of sex. Dried milk
on a Mother's breast.

No, it is rancid. A cankerous sore cracked open
when you come to create
but ain't got shit to say.

This poem is not far reaching or verbose.
You try to tell yourself it is compost,
fertilizer for another truth.
But no matter how far down you dig, all you find
is rubbish.

Featured Image: Original photo by Roman Mikhailiuk/Shutterstock.com; image editing by Emerald staff.