Under Fluorescence

I toil the soil and earth,

the worms they tumble forth.

But the sun beats cold and blue,

and the worms they shrivel too.

For this soil I toil and nurture

is dry and quiet and cold.

For bound by logic and words

this soil is still, with secrets untold.

Where others toil and toil still

I lay, as no secret could stir me

as logic and soil and earth does pile,

and cover me.

But dead I am not, nor tired or weary.

A ponder I wonder under the soil,

A secret unlike those toiled.

While the soil, cold and brittle,

I grow and root and move freely.

For no logic can stop me,

nor words can settle me.

So sprout I pull, from toiled soil.

This earth no longer cold, nor still.

The sun no longer blue, nor beating,

and worms they dance, and stories told.

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