Under tens of millions of years old rubble.
I feel small,
Insignificant, and suffocated.
I want to breathe.
I grasp for it;
But it doesn’t come within my reach,
Passing through my fingers like
Tens of millions of ripples.
I speak, but my voice seems to stop short
Before it fully gains its freedom,
Like a fallen tree in nature’s plunder.
If a tree falls in the world’s absence,
Does it make a sound?
It’s futile really.
The more I try,
The more I’m being spoken over,
And the more I’m being buried under
Tens of millions of years old rubble.
You don’t hear me.
You don’t hear me, period.
And you won’t because you’re not listening.
You don’t hear me cry because you would rather not see.
I wish I could fly away from this abstraction
Without giving it a second thought,
Like that fledgling who took flight
At the first sign of danger.