An orange box, a lid latched on one side
and taupe tissue, torn at the edges;
onyx runners, bleached checks on their faces
and charcoal shoelaces, shredded at ends;
white soles, streaked with grass;
A breath of fresh air becomes a hard pant,
but the evergreen perfume lingers.
The footsteps of cavalries fall in clashing rhythm:
a ballad of battle and bravado.
Body eclipses ache and confronts numbness;
the mind does not conform.
Hills of the past cower at the mountain ahead;
dirt, rocks, and men fall from it.
Optimism drowns in chants of animosity;
this is Golgotha.
Jacob Seabolt grew up in Michigan, and is a senior in high school. He won his first writing contest in eighth grade for a narrative about his mother, and has since continued by love for writing through poetry and songwriting.