This Is No Crusade

Words burst from throats
like parasites from rippling flesh,
wriggling through planetary layers:
strata of rock and heart and lungs
and they are ugly, grey, but they want
out of geological imprisonment,
burying caves in shed skins
and they are misshapen, rough,
but they want, for want of light and eyes
up to the light in their lackluster shape
and bask in their ugly, grey glory
for the simple sake of existing.