Going Down

There’s a level that you reach, erroneously think
it’s a basement.

dusty and moldy, which you wouldn’t mind,

but for the underlying stench of something less than alive

more than dead

barely

living

Your hand trembles along the fashioned wood, worn smooth

from endless digging in calloused amounts

required service, by a preternatural power

shoulder to it

unimaginably

heavy

but the labor

only dulls the blade

(Born of Justin Nozuka and not much else.)