Still the dirt
for you
to crawl through.
Undress
your wounds,
to reveal
your infection.
It has leaked
through delays,
those you’ve counted.
You’ve long known
what had to be done,
before running.
You wash your hands
in your blood,
fortifying denial
with iron.
You’re been reflecting
this blunt weather,
through a puddle
showing streams.
Such resistance
spreads nothing
except vapor,
the monochrome
leaving your lungs.
You create the storm
to conceal
through its thunder,
its clash of clouds,
your choir of wails,
your blackened eyes.
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