In chthonic snaking underneath
we’re crammed commuting flesh to flesh;
with faces luminent, as if our death:
is closer now when brought us fresh
a morning when from Manchester we listen
to the panicked screams of teenage girls.
I see a face, and teardrops glistens:
in this – our metro grave, for blood and pearls
of budding life unfairly taken.
No words suffice, we nod and understand
we might be shocked or shaken
but, most of all we still, united stand.
We leave, we part with underground, remember
that though it’s summer in our hearts November.
But give or take a day or two we’ll think
that retribution makes a pale girl pink.
Today Paul hosts at dVerse with the prompt being underground, let it be from any point of view, a subway, mine or cave. We will serve you gin and chthonic tonight.
May 23, 2017