I’ve got a chill
I can’t shake.
From the middle,
it radiates,
hellish hurts,
searing words,
self-contained
ribcage-earthquakes…
and then
the towers
in my heart sway.
Mortar cracks,
and falling trestles
all break away.
One thing,
an old oak beam,
is a wooden crutch.
Cracked, it rattles,
but it’s the last
remaining brace.
The ice slips
down the mountain,
avalanche,
eruption,
frozen geysers
and frozen fountains
are like fangs.
They rip at the
heart’s housing,
cracked asunder,
by the earth’s shuddering
whimpers and bangs.
©️ CG Tenpenny, 2020.