Left on our own,

we’d all taste like mushrooms

after a storm.

We’re called to dirt

and other low things.

But he tasted the sea after she was gone.

An overwhelming sense of blue.


There was talk

of digging to find lost souls

on the other side of the world

but there was just magma beneath

a sleepy world.

We’re ready to blow

but it won’t be volcanic;

it will be a whispering whining

like a popped balloon

when we face our ruin.

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