Fault Line

The template had the fault,
I was buried alive.
Brick by brick they erected the cell
around me.
I could see only the reflection
of a moon at night
in my glass of water.

During the day sun peeped through the cracks,
was hurting and very disturbing,
forming a skull and crossed bones
on the walls.

I watched a piece of sky
as a hub of pallisades.
I planted a word in that hole.

After one seed, there were many
echoes. Starting in the distant hills.
I was rising in red fog.