my hands are bloodied.

the threads of my boots pulled apart.

my soul is sullied.

the heart in my ribcage won’t start.

i don’t know the first thing about mining,

i just know work.

i don’t know one thing about the sky,

i only know the dirt.

and everyday when i come down,

i tell myself i’m ok.

the same lie lives on a loop in my head.

until it the words lose all sense,

and the ends of them fray.

something about ignorance

brings me comfort.

the lack of responsibility,

the intrepid soul. 

a brave warrior,

and yet i’m mining all alone.

and so i’ll work myself into the ground.

i will work until i’m miles beneath the surface.

i can work until i hear no sound.

the silence never makes me nervous.

the calm of a dead heart,

the peace of a soul out of service.

so maybe,

the dust and dirt of the underground 

will grip at my lungs with a tight fist.

and maybe,

the pickaxe will shatter me to pieces,

with my bones left in a twist.

yes maybe,

i’ll be a skeleton of what once was,

a memory of person much kinder.

i may lose all sense of who i ever was,

but at least i’ll have been a good miner.

my hands are bloodied.

the threads of my boots pulled apart.

but in my mines

i’ve learned to suture them back together,

and restart.