Linda Price

Lungs on Fire

Below these bellows, there is a dreary place,
unknown address, no number on the gate,
entangled ivy, golden green with hate,
deep, dark, silence, only I create.

Below these bellows, there is an orange glaze,
steamy shadows conceal my face,
thickened undergrowth lines verdant lace,
furnace of sorrow sparks without trace.

Below these bellows, there is a desert space,
a yellow seed opens with quiet grace,
unfolded route of my quivering gait,
steely sounds reverberate.

Below these bellows, there is a seeping callous,
from eager footprints, that knew no malice,
crumpled pathway, that holds the chalice,
deep, dark silence, only I embrace.

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