Kompost in Any Language

Kompost in any language
still rots.
We throw our
better wastes together in a
communal cage where we
lay ourselves down,
tired… resting… in the blues,
waiting for the
mess to ooze out
something worthy.
Our tangled limbs
branch together and
also wait… wait… wait… for that
something
that slides in… an
unknown devourer of
debris…
We name the place with
meager banners
flap-snapping in mercurial
breezes.
Naming makes it real.
…but blues kiss greens while the
silent, fiery roar
comes closer.
Truth and lies meld in
man's intentional agreement.
Kompost in any language
still rots.