There’s such resentment

burning in people’s lives;

when the crust is holed

the stench of fury

blows across the rocks.

Something infernal

is celebrated

by black scavengers

borne by the updraft

to mock our pretence

of solidity

with their rasping cry.


The rocky outcrops

we have imagined impermeable

grim faced but unmoved.

But look through the crack

where the myth of flint’s

timeless endurance

melts to molten rage.


In truth we don’t look.

We prefer thin lipped

hardness, unsoftened

by the fleshy roots

of mortality,

pretending we stand

absorbing the world’s story

in our layers


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