Gunpowder Gorge

There’s a deep, swelling anger,

like the splits in the old barrel,

and black powder is burying the stone,

keeping your throat dry, and closed.

Sharp like flint,

it’s a fragile constitution,

burning hotter than calcium,

in a deep, black sky.

Safety is a violated line,

and its blood runs down our streets,

our bones, the record,

grinding away,

after every smothered scream.

The gorge is wide and deep,

carving all the way to Hell,

paved with betrayal,

and shattered hearts.

– Ginnie-May Turner

12.11.2024