Around this hallowed space
curving walls
and dripping ceilings, concrete
pressing and stretching
and acres of black and white tiles.
Drowning in uniformity
echoes of disparate voices
I too, call out.
Deeper down, down we slide
grit, grime wearing as we accelerate; a
perverse progression
and yet there’s a way to
devour, hopelessly
and it cranes our necks to look back at all.
Scraping at the only dust that remains
that would give our floundering feet traction
the void calls out.
Along the way, bulbs in dusty prisms
gleam dull and cruel; like
hoarded luxury
and insatiably hungry eyes, all framing an
unfathomable maw
and blinding us against the unknown.
The glow is warming inside these walls
the night never comes, but however stifled
we call out.
Billions of eyes focusing
forward through the chaos, reflecting
speckled trees
and cacophonous Springs
righteous respiration
and rusting, silent chains.
Voices presently choked, almost muted
a technological compromise and no one need leave
but they call out.
Beaten bodies building
soils sown with poisons
seas roiling; a pot over flame
and yet we march
walls contracting
and we grow restless.
These tunnels were not built to burst
but the breath of the Earth beyond is rallying
the climate is calling.
