Vexation

Choking on tribulation from the pernicious dissection,
as an effluvious stench reeks through the foraminate organ grinder,
pin sync with the beating of a heart.
Two bit pacemaker on the fritz.
This purulent machine put through the washer again.
Ulcerated vowels puncture cogitation,
swathed in tones of the tempest that softly ravage the furrow.
A harbinger of fornication,
untold by the sagacious gentleman waiting for his luck to run out.
Your kismet has been told.
Contagion has been consigned.
Adjudication set for despondency,
until the leaves blossom and fall,
and leave you,
breathless.