I slept
on a sea of cardboard once,
a tenth your age,
worms making more worms in dirt beneath,
sand over soil,
sun basking
like turtles,
snapshots of magma shifting
beneath plates and plates of me,
a closeness
to divine,
a gift to the earth.

You talk in your sleep.
I rub rich oils
into cracks in your armour
and when ache makes a holy,
dank, lonely hole in your frame,
I imagine myself as matter and bones,
mattering to no one,
matterless with time,
your earth left
more bountiful,
thrivingly green.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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