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