At the Brink Sink

Regurgitation's value lies on the floor
Half-digested truth
Shorn of original whim
Aspirations aspirated in gut factotums
 
Factory mobs make wage compacts 
A matter of impassive honor
Decay, though, deflates our blimps
Limpid desertification's not-yet-Sahara

Is an ocean of disaster transition
For the forest won't go softly
Into that fire blight
Where wet heat nets feet

The stroll hits the couch
Until the sidewalk cracks
Into its trillionth shard
And then, finally,

The sand gloss waves
Will shimmer new Bedouin eyes 
From disingenuous disorganization
To solid fractal group