When the crater growled with anger,
you watched with anticipation.
You scrambled for your notepad,
hunted down that orange-red ink.
Suddenly it was a volcano,
you’d always known it would be.
It spat fire, and you wrote,
rivulets of agony.
It threw up ash, and you wrote,
the air swirling with grief.
You sighed at the destructive beauty,
when the lava consumed all.
You gasped when the tendrils of heat
surrounded you like a warm embrace.
And you were standing miles away.
If I had your notepad,
I’d use the crimson of my blood.
Did you ever imagine,
that fire and ash are just that?
You will never see the ugly gash,
the crater,
as anything but a wound to bandage.
To wrap up in morbid words and
petulant music.
You will never notice the burnt grass,
or the missing white flower
it used to cradle.
When again the birds sing,
and a new wind blows life into the earth,
a stem will break the surface.
A black flower will grow,
and as you search for survivors,
I’m sure you’ll notice
and sing of the glorious tanned flower.


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