Jul 1
they go down still
into the dark
where no light lives
but the spark of rage
faces smeared with the soot of belief
hands blistered
by clenching so long
to lies shaped like truths
sold cheap by masters
who never once bled
they mine hate
like coal
digging deeper
with every grudge
every slogan carved into the walls
like it's scripture
they call it pride
they call it country
they call it righteous
but it coats their lungs
it chokes the air from their days
until their words rasp and clank
with bitterness
that no water can cleanse
no light can reach
and still they swing
their pickaxes of blame
their spades of suspicion
into the very seams
that poison them
the dust hangs heavy
in the hollows of their chest
like fiery sermons
it settles in their veins
like silt in a still creek
they die slowly
but certainly
not for gold
not for bread
but for their blessed illusion
of having struck something
their master watches
from a tower of clean air
counting each cough
as profit
and the miners call him savior
and the deeper they go
the darker it gets
and still
they do not stop
into the dark
where no light lives
but the spark of rage
faces smeared with the soot of belief
hands blistered
by clenching so long
to lies shaped like truths
sold cheap by masters
who never once bled
they mine hate
like coal
digging deeper
with every grudge
every slogan carved into the walls
like it's scripture
they call it pride
they call it country
they call it righteous
but it coats their lungs
it chokes the air from their days
until their words rasp and clank
with bitterness
that no water can cleanse
no light can reach
and still they swing
their pickaxes of blame
their spades of suspicion
into the very seams
that poison them
the dust hangs heavy
in the hollows of their chest
like fiery sermons
it settles in their veins
like silt in a still creek
they die slowly
but certainly
not for gold
not for bread
but for their blessed illusion
of having struck something
their master watches
from a tower of clean air
counting each cough
as profit
and the miners call him savior
and the deeper they go
the darker it gets
and still
they do not stop
We live in a time where hatred has become currency spent freely, hoarded hungrily, traded in the open with no shame. Like miners breathing in dust they cannot see, we take in the poison of outrage, conspiracy, and tribal loyalty masked as truth. It coats our thoughts. It makes us feel powerful, but it is a slow rot.
The seduction in anger is that it gives us an enemy, a direction to point our pain. But it is not healing; it is a fire that consumes but never warms.
The mine is deeper now than it has ever been. Do you hear the supports creak? The air is thin. And still, so many keep digging, convinced they are righteous, that they are strong, that they will make it.
But the love of many has grown cold. And when love dies, all that's left is smoke and ash... a hole in the ground that entombs all who enter.
This is a lament.
The mine is about to collapse.
And some still believe they will be saved by the ones who sent them in.
The seduction in anger is that it gives us an enemy, a direction to point our pain. But it is not healing; it is a fire that consumes but never warms.
The mine is deeper now than it has ever been. Do you hear the supports creak? The air is thin. And still, so many keep digging, convinced they are righteous, that they are strong, that they will make it.
But the love of many has grown cold. And when love dies, all that's left is smoke and ash... a hole in the ground that entombs all who enter.
This is a lament.
The mine is about to collapse.
And some still believe they will be saved by the ones who sent them in.
(28/M/Washington State)
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