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Why is it that in all of my dreams

the sky is on fire?

I’d like to know why the clouds are ash

and why the rain burns.

Sometimes in that sky

I am a volcano – dark and mysterious.

My skin is hard and made of years

and years of built up decay

and yet there are brilliant cracks forming along my skin

and the molten center that has been boiling for centuries

comes oozing out, slowly. So slowly, you forget to run.

You forget the heat that is coming

and you watch it track down your skin with a fevered fascination

until you are consumed.

The volcanic pyre doesn’t erupt but sears you with languid sorrow

from the inside out.

By Kat Cody