Mold

Screams, pleas, sobs, soiling, silence

His hidden hands diminish me, slaughtering with their violence

Churches, schools, groups prefer the beautiful lie to an ugly truth

A heavy-hearted protest does nothing against glowing 5-star reviews

His slimy tentacles worm their way into my stomach from across the house

No home but his well-oiled ruse from which to espouse a tenebrous cloud

Rummaging like a raccoon so that I may seek my daily bread

My gut is left with a petrifying ache as I shiver to bed

I awaken from the crooked dream

A deformed, moldy green

To shake a lover’s hand or hand a lover mine

Is to mind a moldy muddy carpet treated with lime

I was told it didn't happen, then told it didn't matter

Then told draining my mold was annoying when done through laughter

But at what do I laugh? Is the joke my existence?

Or is it simply that I won't retire, insisting on persistence?