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Cold Below
Last night I dreamt of that small Poland pond.
Shrouded by forest, the shallow water raises the ducklings above the muck.
I meander around the eroding banks,
The shoreline speckled with sand and mud, akin to the edges of a fluffy pancake.
High-rise apartments tower above the trees,
Worn billboards of Ryan Reynolds and Billy Joel stain the concrete towers.
The overcast day lays shadows across the pond,
I love the rain, but I can’t live in a storm.
The dark water becomes Charybdis, consumer of all within.
I jump.
A dicotomía of logic and desire,
My running shoes slide against the granular sands.
The Earthly ties fade away as I plunge into the icy reservoir,
My dream career in international business, the water not as salty as some peers may be,
They all fade to nothingness above.
Fifty-two electricity eels emerge from the depths,
Their shocks emitting brilliant cyan light,
Grandeur rivaling Thomas Edison,
Rendering the quaint pond into a shaken Sprite.
“How wonderful!” my Grandma would say,
Gazing upon the calm dark depths,
Sequestered from the turbulent world beyond the surface.
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