A Poem for Friday

A pocket deep underground. With unlimited air,
A bubble at the bottom of the trench, dancing on a
Bed of salt, on a vent of heat
A single bolt of lightning. A wave separated from,
An ocean
A living byte, trying alongside the gum,
A single atom.

A death-like poetry, a murder-like squall
A single long strand floating against a wall,
Falling, melting, touching fine-ly

Trapped, I focused on breathing, in and out,
So I wouldn’t lose consciousness.
I screamed, yelled, battered, fought, until
A final breath, a cough on the dry air.
A burning set of lungs, a dripping face,
None mattered under the mercy of gravity.

A rip of nails, bleeding fingers and bones
A snap of knuckles, falling, dripping, burning
Striking fire, stirring love, breaking hate.

The calm fell hard, so I had time to breathe,
And dig out of the grave.
I couldn’t remember anything, until
I tried to find everything.
A gash in the side of the head,
Still buried under miles of mud,
To carry up the mountain.

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