THE SURVIVALIST

It is not Fort Knox

or the lost city of Tanis,

where legend had it

the Ark of the Covenant

was once buried. It is more

like a fallout shelter.

But there is no gold bullion,

lost treasure, food rations,

or medical supplies to speak of

in this underground bunker of mine.

What I have squirreled away

are the essentials

a different kind of survivalist

would stockpile:

anger, shame, grief.

I store them here, in this place,

to keep myself safe.

Little do I know though

that I have the makings

of a pressure cooker,

not a safe house, on my hands.

A land mind you might even say.

The only way to uncover the gold

or any kind of covenant

that may actually be hidden here

is to allow the anger,

the shame, the grief out,

to let them rise to surface, 

to daylight them, making sure, 

of course, no collateral damage 

or external fallout occurs 

along the way.

If I can do this then

there is nothing to survive,

there is no threat of a Doomsday,

and no dark cellar lurking in my soul.