In the days of drowned accent into wet,
the bottoms of my pant leggings
continued to dredge
thru the swamps of a cities rainy keep.
Nothing stopped their used status of demise
Cities of modern filth without country soap,
Agony cried out, "don't be over already!
don't die out & lose your status in the streets."
They demand to edge beneath my shoes,
only to find another puddle easier,
a puddle they belonged too, more,
more than all my favoritism given towords,
I was forgotten,
only to be disquieted by their smudges again re-owned,
A new final and fragile tender they acted-into,
as if never before did they ever care.
Those burgandy pants were on the edge of perfect comfort,
with just a few weeks of their life left to spare.
