Veins

• Bridey Lea, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2014

Mad and pale
As a guttural chord of moonlight,
I languish bloated and glue
Matchstick walls; spite thatched stalls
To carry my feather-light deadweight
Cut through with cold, blue veins
Where the arms of Atlas crack and wither away.
A chattel's sanctuary - safe from smelling silver rain on dirt,
From pulling dust up about the tongue
In half-hanged sun.
A fortress of gloves and shoes and silver.
I and me would refuge my self to Valhalla
To raise this choking curtain; this deafening certain.
Then the Earth would truly hold me
And the rust corrode
My veins.