My heart these days feels tiny in my chest,
like Jonah in the whale
that doesn’t know he’s there…

It feels crushed, contained,
fibrillating, strained at best
pumping gut polluted air…

Outside the cradling rib cage,
beyond the white boned wall:
four winds and wilding seas.

No flame to light my guiding page,
just the siren’s haunting call,
and a pale horse upon the breeze…

Shod hooves come thudding faster,
my heart beats ever small
as dark shadows fall like death…

I am a portent of disaster,
the thirteenth trumpet call
of the harbinger’s last breath.