Whirls

The ground is thrown
up into the air like confetti and we
dance across the ragged rock and
buckling streams with such
farcical haste

We are robots in a
sarcophagus that writhes
in beautiful agony
with each brazen
lug of blood

The urge to run
and commit to
the grass, contribute
to the flow of immaculate life
and rip-roaring death
that bubbles within each
biting insect’s bark is
potentially seismic

Every growl or
cursory, stuttered breath is
a reminder
that I am alive

#365DaysOfPoetry

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