His intentions flow like lava,

carving blood-red troughs

through dignity and reason.


They dig like veins

underneath a leaf until in chunks

of remorse peter into a vast sea

amid crashing waves

and jagged promontories.


His eruptions entomb bodies

expressioned like mimes in a play

for which they did not



Let the discord of his music

be no mirror to the symphony of

his soul.


No rhyme or reason can explain

the destruction in his wake.


Only time will breed life in ash

while the man lies dormant

hoping his trees bear fruit

before the arrival of darkness.

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