Bondage

Ah, the festering aroma of innuendos,
have I not smelled the craft of your imagination today?
Who is beholden to whom anymore
but a mind and its own bouquet of opium.
It does feel like dementia of a sort,
sniffing valleys of privy vindication.
Sniffing the con artist’s who cry
and the landslides that say,"It is what it is."
This perennial sediment
has left a fighter with a sword
that it can not use.
Get up and Go you spiritless tank!
Have you not groveled enough in a land of decay?