Politicians Play the Game of Ego with Our Lives: A Sonnet

Methinks in moments of self-doubt and haze
That someone somewhere knows and does not tell
From whence comes forth that nauseating smell
That follows us through forests and towns most days.
Odoriferous makes it sound pretentious
To the ear while seeping up the nostrils
Then through them like ever growing tendrils
To cerebral processors within us.
It may be one solitary poet
Who sometimes some days cannot help but think
That there is a most unpleasant foul stink;
A bad odor sticks and hurts to know it.
On morns when skies are dark but mind is clear
Senses will alert me of things to fear.