Prompt Master Poems

The Moment before Motion

An Earthquake thinks of pressure,
not as violence yet,
but as patience.
As years of holding its breath
beneath mountains pretending to sleep.

The earthquake wonders
if anyone will notice the warning signs:
a dog refusing the doorway,
a glass humming to itself,
a fault line stretching like a tired back.

It remembers being a whisper once,
two plates brushing shoulders in the dark,
an apology that never made it to the surface.

It does not hate the houses.
It envies them.
How easily they stand,
how confidently they believe in permanence.

The earthquake considers mercy.
It always does.
It considers stopping right there,
remaining nothing more than tension,
a thought never spoken.

But pressure is also a memory,
and memories demand movement.

So it gathers its courage,
counts to three in the language of stone,
and lets go.

not out of anger,
but because even the earth
cannot hold everything forever.

 

Prize Prompt: The thing an earthquake thinks about before it happens.
Written for: "PromptMaster !" 
Line Count: 37