The Geode

Under armadillo armor
rough torn patches
iron tough.

Beneath taut scars
abraded tissue torn
to compost fodder.

Down, down into dark –
cry to sleep, count sheep,
dashed dreams and nightmares: childhood

locked away in congealed memories which long
for light, fresh air
a taste of freedom from their rancid selves.

Chip away concretionary surfaces.
Run barefoot through the violet crystal
center of my heart.

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