from TPL ISSUE !

THE ILLS OF STAGNATION

As we sit and let accumulate
the waters, still, there grows
a stench of convention. It will
(does) suffocate us if unchecked.
It is breathing down my neck
as I speak.
Watch for this
old friend, this disguised
fellow, this fog. Turn your
heads and look at down.
Turn your head now. Tear them
all in half- the expanse of
it. Your sitting down, notice it.