At Least

Finding a place of quiet resolve when evil is winning

Photo by Shawn Appel on Unsplash

My ire ran fast on granite plates
In vain for warmth or, at least, thin velvet beds of algae

Propelled to seek a crack or ledge, a fault, a seam
An inkling of a thing that breathes or, at least, is living

I looked for light, a spark, a glint
My cones redundant — hoped, at least, my rods would fire

I thought these plates would have an end
A resolution or, at least, a quickening

It seems this cold and heartless seam
Sprung forth from Hades or, at least, it was as cold

But now I seek more sulphurous flows
Where magma crawls, at least it moves

It cracks and spits, its odour rank
It’s not ideal, at least it smells of something

It drives through boils upon earth’s crust
Not frequently but at least upon a blue moon

It is irresistible and unstoppable, destructive
But at least it cuts through hardened habits

So now my ire runs slow and hot
Not knowing when it’s time, at least I know its time…