Mingled

It is coming up through me
from the ground.
My feet are pulling it
out of the earth -
tearing it
from the dirt.

It is dark,
silvery,
heavy and full
of power.

My heart beats with it
these days.
It courses through
all my veins -
ivory growing from bone
and iron deposits in the
hot and cooling core.
It bubbles.

There is no joy
in this grief
that comes from
the dirt,
that comes from
the ground
and from death.
There is rest
sometimes,
but there is no joy.

It mingles with me
and falls down again.
Trying to pull me
back in to its depths.
I pull to keep myself
from going in,
from going under.

My pulling
and its
pulling get
lost and mixed
together and
unclear. Who is
pulling which and
which whom?

Traces of silvery pools
mix with blood and seep
into the crevices of
the cracked dirt.
No tree will grow here,
no blade of grass.
Only the buzzards
will come
and peck at the soil;
tasting for death
between the broken
earth and the pieces
of bloodied gravel.

Ciao!

+Tom