You lack foundation.

 

the absence of substance allows for a hull, dark and soiled

With dripping salt,

up from which oozes the paranoia of such squalid thoughts.

 

Deep to the core of you,

The ancient-mortared and sickly

slick of you,

 

It is grey.

Uninhabited by squarely laid designs,

instead, the heaps of ladders mounted,

compromised, abandoned for any upcoming divinity.

 

A well so long ago forged is hard to cap.

It’s gravity a danger to any passerby only knowing

once it is far too late,

by the markings,

the crimson clawings

On your vacant walls.

 

©MaryHannahSnider 2016