Dirt and dust are staples for wood
that is rapped and tapped for days.
We find ways to be still all the time
so lock me in a box with all I ever
deemed to be real. Mine is soaked
and the worms have choked on the
vile fumes that spew forth from above
this ancient crust that is littered with
more stones than we will ever need.
We bleed and we bleed and the Earth
is dyed red with the clay that we lift
for our passing. Do we still bury our
dead? The height of a man is too much
so knock me down to level my spirit.
Vast Imbecility 