Under the coma of this sky I am fraught with clouds
Beneath the needlework of this ground
I am exhausted by the stitch of groaning roots
Between the echo of every footfall I compose passion
With notes that crawl like black ants across the skin.
Not the weed that sneaks like a finger through the black dust
Not the pedals closed like a fist around their colors in the dark
Not the cold in my cracked dirt caked hands
Could stop me from digging this hole
So something around here can be beautiful.
Anonymously pinned under 2 a.m. stars.
The gray dirt rolling off my knees.