Sometimes I feel as though I’m
sliding off
a deflated world, where
skeletal vines suspend
me, the abyss beneath, a
wormhole to the Devil’s lair.
As misfortunes grow, leaving
me hollow,
exhausted, destitute as a
third world country, my
feet exposed to jagged dirt
depleting the sanguine fluid
that nourishes, barbed wire
tightens its grip
with vengeance. I sob rivers
of albumen when
rigid skin harvested over
years of excessive cultivation
crack like egg-shells, but only
small enough
to contain my yolk. Even
though my internal fluids
ferment, this core refuses to
be petrified, not even Pompeii’s
fury can coat me with
sediment to obstruct
time, partially exposed to
treasures out of reach.
Eyes ascend, knees dismounted,
and hands unburdened
to catch omnipotent
benevolence, I see the
fluorescent journeys,
chateaus where transparent
spirits reign, on this
battleship of immense infatuation.
© 2013 Donna J. Sanders
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