Well, I guess it's a mess
Frayed trust is a hard set to adjust
All static
I can't ask you to do this
The edges of my cover
In lose filaments, the weave
Fading, unbraiding and disordered
Caught on the less populated edges
Like the first dogs
I must mutate to stomach
The rubbish, fed with rubbish
And fed up, to the gills.
These storms of mind worsen
There have always been squalls
Burnt carbon, methane
Now they are hurricanes
And the thick black pall
Hangs on the horizon for seasons
The only deliverance is mutation
Controlled cell growth under this light
Adaptation. The lodger left the toilet
broken
My ex got drunk and pulled the guest
Of all, I know not what should be
spoken
This frayed blanket is a mess.
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