The fallible exoskeleton, a Golden Ratio,
Spiraling inward as an array of stained glass.
A luminescent trail of saliva behind it,
Seemingly preserved forever in the lens of the moment.
My fingertips brush its riveted surface like waves,
A body retracts into the delicateness of a shield
Attempting fortitude in the marriage
Between a fragile home and barely pulsing heart.
Simply one of the miniscule rungs
on the silver web of nature’s mighty balance,
unable to abuse the existence of any, yet
vital in simplicity to the rich, grown ground.


His boots slaughter dirt with inerasable prints
As His hand, weathered with the tolling worries of tomorrow,
Tears the snail, with intentions not but absentmindedness,
from the manicured earth.
A mind too large to function.
Tossing it into the abyss of the morning,
It falls,
Another addition to the staircase upwards,
A sickeningly light snap, like that of breaking twigs,
Sends my stomach into hysterics, convulsions.
The shell, body giving way beneath, collapses inward
On itself.
If protest had not tasted so sour on my selfish tongue,
If the sun had not risen
and the birds insisted to sing
and His feet trudge on in labored pace,
you’d hear the scream, of a thousand screams,
Caught deep within my throat