Something We're Stuck With

The song lingers,

On tips of tongues.

Dripping forlorn pools,

It clouds thought strands;

Pulling fibers mercilessly.

Shouted by all who breathe,

Or hummed if preferred.

In all forms, it spins,

Knocking out the senses.

A lived-in substance,

Stuck like coursing blood.

No restless vengeance.

At best, we give in.