Quake

The malleable stuff of our speech, conforming blob nestled in ravenous teeth
There's a curtain of language, it's behind it we must reach
Into that miasma of waves that saturates the air, that transmits the decay
It was in reception, laid on tectonic plates, that a sore vigilante did in me awake
Sat up in the dark screaming, "for something sacred's sake...
Won't you lie on your land and move her to quake?

The variable stuff of our sphere, the changing arrangement of all we deem real
There's a curtain of color, let's grope through it to feel
The soft warm glow of being, the melting of falsehoods we build just by seeing
But a panicked mob running makes rhythms that sing, beseeching beneath where they place treading feet
Like an ultrasound's murmuring baby's heartbeat.

The terrestrial witness becomes still, and that we exist, like a wind, she can feel
She's drenched in our waves by each gust of this breeze
Which blows with the rhythms of brain-wave in sync, with the waves of denial, of trust being breached
These things we call words, oozing, wet, awkward speech
Lie on your land and breathe hard to beseech that the curves of this woman will turn
That she'll stir in her slumber, that we'll feel a soft squirm
And get jostled into a mess we can rebuild more pure
In a catastrophe of rebirth, in a revolution of earth.