sludge spot

there's a spot under the pot

where the sun never shines

the moss is growing fast

the water never dries

a year or two or maybe three

the warp has now set in

the rot is strong it won't last long

entropy in 3-D

pine needles join the dance

a moldy tango fierce

another drop another drip

the point of no return

beneath the moss under the pot

the wood is holding still

but touch the spot so full of rot 

it crumbles instantly

beware the dark and damp

where no light enters in

things left too long decay

compost in formation

before that moment passes by

move the pot let it dry

subtext

 a thousand words 

we paint a scene 

professing knowledge 

by other means 

than face to face 

one to another 

we’d rather not try

and keep our brother

who stands apart 

outside our touch 

because we fear

it’d be too much 

to let him close 

give him free choice 

the risky option 

to hear his voice 

and find he might 

think differently 

would rock the core

of you and me

so safe we stay

in our glass shell

and prattle on

the words we tell 

random

a car drove by

unlike another

its red design

clearly bespoke

a mousy nod

with 95

i marvelled at

its quirky lines

amused and glad

something so odd

a fleeting laugh

on rubber wheels

some 4-year-old

somewhat adulting

then hours later

the fabric tears

the world spins round

i'm upside down

a random man

gives me a sign

a glossy poster

common design

of that same car

unique offscreen

and rarely seen

i wonder dazed

at such a thing

coincidence

it seems