Odium for the Podium

Born decrepit, a tired spirit,

A shabby soul, a foul mole.

Swinging on the branches,

As the storms passed by,

Holding onto self,

And nothing more.

At the cliff, it danced,

Like a swaying shrub,

Petrified of falling,

Yet savouring the surge.

As the moon rose high,

And the wolves howled,

The derelict searched,

For a sanctum of peace.

It made a home,

Warmed it’s cold heart,

Not knowing the pastures,

That lay underneath.

Scavenging and hunting,

Foraging and gathering,

The despair in its bosom,

Withered and died.

Six feet under, 

It buried itself,

The anger, the fear,

Turned into dust.

When it rained,

The drenched grave wept,

For six feet under,

There was still pain.