The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~Vladimir Nabakov

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Swamp Gas

Green akin to envy is the horrible stench
Of this pungent poisonous odour wrench

Released in the air like mushroom spore
Onto the unsullied breathing forest floor

Inhaling this deep breath ultimately taken
While suffocating is this feeling unshaken
Choking busy it heaves foliage with slate
Filling living with silent dead lead weight

Like emerald envy is this malicious greedy

Crawling into every crevice angrily needy
This ripening wealth to have it never seizes
Famished wrath spiteful gasping in wheezes

By deteriorating rises this fizzy substance
Twirling within a shadowy greenish dance
Nothing but tainting of the red blood lies
Beyond existence outside this swamp gas

Powerful is its prevailing juvenile clinch
Sinking fast yet trivially into inch by inch
Disillusioned is this peace it cannot sense
Brimming treetops sway in drowsy glance

Swamp resonates this lethal contamination
While escaping yields with contemplation
Indisposing the toxicity of gaseous rising
Collapsing ultimately in the end subsiding

Mourning bigger then excessive very fast
Eliminating survival and perishing at last
In horror does the forests embarks its cries
As life surrounded by gas decays and dies

Although green was this shade in the fields
One prevails the end while the other yields
Pending gestation of seeds sparks reviving
Colour associated in creation for surviving

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