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The little silver fish
Scatter like shrapnel As I plunge upward From the black underworld. The green waves break from my sides As I roll up, forced by my season, And before the tenth second I can feel my own heat - The wind can never cool as oceans do. By mid-morning, My skin has sweated into agony. The turmoil of my intestines Bloats out against my skin. I'm too sick to struggle - I hang In the thermals of pain, Screaming against the slow, slow, slow Rise toward descent. And the madness of my pain Seems to have infected everything - Cities hack each other into blood; Ships sink in firestorm; armies Flail with sticks and crutches; Obesity staggers toward coronary Down the streets of starvation. |
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