After The End Times
       

The hour of darkness, dirt in her eyes, pulse distant, she travels earthen tunnels,
the sod roof of the mole who rests deep in his room.

Beneath the ground, an underworld where rocks and bones are equal.

Endless night turns under the mole—
ghosts of the gone time, memories sunken into long years of loss.

Inside a raccoon carcass, a dark wing.

Deep down, still breathing, she evolves her higher self—
waits for eruption, the earth’s waste to spill,

reveal germinating seeds spurred into living above ground,
seed heads opening to light.

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Copyright © 2020 Lara Gularte All rights reserved
from The Bitter Oleander
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission