Cellar

The first drop
of each daily ritual hugs
slick along the glass
until gravity overcomes the
tension.

He fills flats of vials / one
by one with life saved
for later.

The front moves in.

Gusts rattle disobedient
tangles of coiled force
and tug at cement foundations.

Hard angles hide the lower level.

Dance with me
his yellowed smile rings.
Comforted by the
crimson hope refrigerated
in his cellar.

© SF Jones, 2014

Dystopia is a poetic worldbuilding project. Each day for the next week, I will post a poem that exposes the characteristics of a fictional setting. The pieces will showcase the physical conditions and/or the emotions and interactions of the people who live there. Let your imagination run wild; I will do the same.

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