​It seems I was born
brokenhearted
to a mother who
could scarce
distinguish
having given birth
or having farted,
and left me
as if I was 
the foul odor
of such an
irrelevant function,
without remorse,
or compunction.
And pitifully
I repeat
the pattern
of the conscienceless,
cold Slattern,
both with myself
and those who
claimed
to have loved.
With those
society insists
that I should place
above.
Yet how can I,
with certainty,
trust?
When life and time,
the ironclad,
consistently
does rust.
It flakes away,
in air and spray,
and feels
as though it must.
As though 
inexorably
the oxidation
spreads,
human bonds,
flotsam, jetsam
compost,
dust to dust.

M. Zane McClellan

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