you were a miner,

searching,
digging for something of worth.

on that day,
you lifted a pickaxe-
the very one
you stole from your brother,
your blue eyed, fair skinned brother,
your silver platter brother-
over your shoulder,
heaved a sigh,
and hacked on the stone.

soon,
the unpleasant sound of clink clink
poisoned the air.

clink clink cl-

the air stilled.

and so did you.

your eyes shot awake;
you rubbed them nervously,
afraid to make a sound, a peep.

that was ridiculous.

a miner, afraid of mining?

no.

rather,
a miner, afraid of fisting diamond to dust,
afraid of destruction,
afraid of no undo's.

a miner, afraid of you.

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