The scent of your word

tempts me to turn

away from need,

in ways that lure

scavengers to scarcity.

Those enclosed

conduct their symphony,

noting every rather be

in sections out of key.

It’s how steering turns circular:

the walking billboards

for end-time discourse,

charmingly addressed

to lash en masse

(like dirt denominated).

Some of us just fall captive

to the failed shapes

that shadows take on,

settling for so-called rights

but never any of the wrongs.

Were we outcome

                or aftermath?