My God— My Hell—
gravel wedded pulp and
bone in the fruit of my core,
gaping wounded knees
pressing the searing flame of pain inward,
tidal waves of blood
spilling human qualities into the cracks of the asphalt reaper’s sickle blade,
scent of copper penny
taste buds and dying autumnal fire lit at my roots,
a horrorscope of phantom
roads mapping my thoughts in blind faith of the atmosphere levitating
…immersing…
my body
My God— My Hell—
glass and mica mirrorball
glamour on my feral calloused palms and heels,
splintered and spiked mace
defense
…weaponed(s)…
should my arms be hooked
and pulled,
dragged to distances out
of my toes’ earth reach,
as
my mind sought Universe widths in a clearing beneath a sonogram sky of
swollen star bellies
E.A. O'Connell
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