12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice

Gold

the cobble stones
that grab my footfall
are those i laid down
so i go slow
all the better
never to trip again

i turn inward
to the perennial fire
it warms
a white-hot death
and i burst
fresh feathered
through the charcoal

from this height
i spy the rusted bars
of my old carcass,
my heart
– the one they told me
was too unclean,
unclear –
how should it not be broken?

there it is, look,
shattered, sure
still beating
where once flowed
the moraine of opinions
those lava tunnels
have cooled to gold

 

Tell me wotcha reckon

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This entry was posted on January 10, 2020 by in Poetry.

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