What is the moral matter?
I have become terrified.
What form of living is this,
if even wearing my sneakers I fear?
The dust winnows the blood from water
and slightly drowns all from the body.

The state of relying on
or being contained by one or else a thing,
having no perceivable content,
none to convey or a wit that seems,
though ornamental objects of no great value
make me rustle up my wear for a living.

At times are angled for rancid reflections,
but remain restful.
Coming out from the chemical mud
to free myself from sulphuric hearth
and never alter the points of reliance,
harvest being the only medicine.