6.9.2023 - Gone

6.9.2023
Gone

We speak of disappearances like well-planned extractions,
Vanished off the face of the earth,
But what about those incised, ground down, and tilled into the soil?
Shame so dire it must be stored below the bedrock.
Hate that writhes,
Fear that pulls us like a magnet,
Gravity to a destination,
Quiet but not still,
Echoing but not empty,
Where the worms crawl and the grave mold waits.
Better plucked into the sky,
Then swallowed whole into the leviathan earth.
There's a reason we always look up,
When we think of heaven.
Wishing to rise like a balloon into light,
When we know we are bound for the dark.