FILTH

in the midst,
of this sea of squalor,
a sordid path I walk on,

so much a part of me,
I wonder,
will it ever break asunder,

I wonder,

what is this?
a sense? a perception?
why the distinction?
here this mirth and filth,
and there,
the freshness and sweetness,

why? why?
why this urge to purge?

there, here, everywhere,
that which is within,
is wrought out,

from the depths,
where we cannot to,
reach out.