Art In The Mine

Down into the caves,
it to the cool darkness,
cold, smells of soot,
carbon walls,
bleak twists and falls,
like a hundred butterfly ghosts
that echo and call,
through these cavern halls.

Crates of splintered pine.
Slid and carried,
holding the treasure
or a nation at war.
Sealed from the light,
and the bombs each night.
Buried to wait for the dark war won,
that clear day,
far away,
like the sun.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.