Jami Patterson Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

Planetary' Contest Info Sponsor William Kelii Kekaula 3/17/2026

The Atmosphere

The crust is a percussion of tectonic plates,
grinding basalt teeth against a jaw of liquid iron.
Here, the air is not air–it is thick, violet syrup tasting of burnt sugar and ionizied ozone, clinging to the back of the throat like wet wool.

The Atmosphere 
Listen to the wind: it doesn't whistle, it screams in a minor key,
shredding the silence into ribbons of static.
The clouds are heavy with suspended mercury,
shimmering like oily opals, dripping
fat, metallic rain that rings against the rocks— clink, thud, hiss.

The ground is a vibrating hum, a low-frequency fever.
Every horizon is a neon fracture, an overexposed photograph. 
The smell of a dying star—sulfur, wet copper, and cold ash.

Deep down, the gravity is a physical weight on the eyelids,
pulling the marrow toward the center of the world.
Everything is too bright, too loud, too close.
The light here doesn't just hit the eyes; it vibrates the skull,
a strobe light synced to a heartbeat that isn't yours.

The planet is a bruise that never heals, 
a kaleidoscope spinning until the colors bleed into white noise,
until you are nothing but a raw nerve wrapped in a coat of stardust and static.

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