Unlikely fingers drum a borrowed
Select storm, as limber limbs prickle;
The mouth, a cold purse upon it,
Pickles briefly, then an expanse of molars
Erupts, lending any lens a full quartz
Of sparkle to this faceted canny quarry’s face.
Powdered particles of suspended
Spatial awareness reveal dark faults;
Scarried highs belch, opening veins
Perilous for following feet out of step —
Rich pickings to mine — a keen eye.
All of this whilst a corrupt world erupts;
Abyssal pain blasted across generations, nations
Ashen, already too weathered to bear much more.
Such stones are these.