Pile

The day, ever slowly drips by,
As hints of much darker clouds,
Start to congregate, in the already dull grey,
Miserable abyss that looms, lowly, just over our heads.
Constatly, it is watching us,
Waiting, so patiently, for even the thought of the faintest hint,
Of a smile on your face, then she will...
Well, the Demonic Hell-bourne Sucubus mother will rain,
Rain right down on our parade, washing it away.
Down, down the drain, as mere sewer waste,
Now we all moosh together, all mixed up,
Just one big juicy steaming pile.
Wet shit, waiting for our own blowfly,
All clumped together on this retched flying rock,
Fertilizing the soil, so the next pile will grow.