The Slow Dance

The filth is oozing at super slow mo.
Like a broken down soft serve flow.
Chocolate ice cream drips like glue.
Hanging steadfast is this laggy poo.
A pendulum of brown dough.

The inside cogs turn at snail’s pace.
My cheeks release the soggy embrace.
But the momentum remains lethargic.
Something about this is cathartic.
It’s an odd feeling of grace.

Pure Pooetry

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