In the realm where revulsion dwells, deep within its core,

Lies a festering, putrid place, of odors, sights, and more.

A landscape marred by loathing, where disdain takes its form,
In the visage of disgust, a storm that's far from norm.

With every sneer, a story told, of disdain and deep abhor,

A visceral reaction, to what we can't ignore.
The rot, the decay, the foulness, a sensory assault,
A testament to aversion, in its most natural result.

The taste of bile, the stench of spoil, sensations all too clear,
Manifestations of repugnance, drawing ever near.
A grimace at the grotesque, a shudder at the vile,
A recoiling from the abject, in every loathsome trial.

This is the dance of the repulsed, a ballet most grotesque,

A choreography of avoidance, in every arabesque.
Yet, within this realm of distaste, a truth is there to find,
That even in disgust, a reflection of mankind.

For what repels us, what we spurn, speaks to our values deep,
A mirror to our boundaries, the standards that we keep.
So, in the face of what offends, what makes the stomach churn,
Is also where our judgment lies, where we grow and learn.

Embrace the full spectrum of feeling, even disgust's harsh sting,

For in the depths of such extremes, our humanity takes wing.
In recognizing what we loathe, in confronting what we spurn,
We define our own ethics, and in turn, we learn.