Underground Weather


The tube is full.

The grey upright pensioner
Reviewing the advertisements –
That’s me.

I sit,
Hands folded – body still.

The hurricane within
Continues unabated.
Shaking, shattering,
Sheering, breaking.

The shell holds.
No fragment escapes
To challenge the shapes
Of your reality.

Tell me –
What’s the weather like in you?

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