SPURS

Sedated from night’s rest,

shallow are her thoughts

and blind are her troubles,

closer her future

and further from the rubble.


Morning dew sweeps the cobwebs

of this godforsaken mind.

These god-given gifts,

this master of her art

and this magician of her rifts.


The sun rises above the hills

and wakes up the rocks

from which she fell.

This unbearable heat

and this ungodly hell.


Rock bottom wasn’t enough for extremes.

The makers of disaster have seen

and gone before her,

carving out a path in forgery,

while digging in their spurs.

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