I feel so heavy,
like stone or lead.
Like some arcane element,
buried deep, half-life burning,
a weird cracked-rumble-churning.
You can feel the pressure
and the fever burning
away old hopes
to leave ashes
of those dead –
crystallized,
diamond-hard
yearnings.
Lace the fingers
of your cold right hand
in the dampened hair
behind my head,
and press the other palm
gently against my chest…
press
press
me into an earth
that so violently works
to turn me out
to the surface.
Press me long enough
for the roots to hook
and the moss to learn
how to hold me firm.
When I am fixed and still,
press your cold hands
against my cheeks
and wish me well,
for I have been long-dead,
but I didn’t know how
to tell.
© CG Tenpenny, 2022.
Image generated by AI.