The Light Found Amidst the Tunnel

What is rampant in me is not a wind tunnel. It is a breeze tapping its breath through my body, treading its way down each vein. I’m not the begrudging urn bluishly making itself known among the ever-arid earthclaws, nor the lovers who come where there is no room to love. Stoics might say I’m old - the flamewhipped fireplace unwilling to dissolve into the moonwhite. Increasingly, I’m the blades resting upright yet bending to the sole’s will. Sundays I drink life's whipped cream and else my neglect shows in crunch, weep, pierce. Later, I’m the raging bells, the flaunting baby’s breath, the vehement fake supermen. I’m a burstful lightning tunnel.