less than 1 minute read

We are racing against the dying of the day
over fields flooded with twigs and silence
towards a broiling bruise left by a canula,
our tinny engine whine now a mosquito.

As we approach, the cloud swallows the sky
becomes a mountain, navy blue, with illuminated
golden caves. Above our heads it towers,
an impossible island on this empty plain.

We hold our breaths close, cling to them
like driftwood. As we drive into the dark
rain hammers down onto our metal shell
in a frenzy, yearning for destruction.



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