Tight knot, tugged.
A bolus, large enough to gulp,
hard as a contracted flesh,
and a lump, that constantly grows.
Like a bite of an unseen bug,
Unavailing,
unscathed yet disturbing,
like a plastic ball, fallen off of a trash can,
That dances on each vibration of tread.
No dust in the air heavy enough to rethrow,
Lone, longing for a hard wind,
Expecting a soft blow.
Diagram of conspiracy hangs in the core,
Immersed in a wine full of console.
Fear diffuses, fogging up the four windows,
on and off, the red zeal flows.
And in no second, lits the eye,
As the first ray of early morn,
heart stirs around the dawn.
Yes, an apocalypse.
An apocalypse, unfolding the purity,
holding back the cold.
A lose knot troubling a hungry soul,
friable and soft, turning into gold.
