Earth, for all its beauty, is intent on its
own sustained destruction-
home grown demolition, fierce and consistent
and severe-
whirling winds and pulverizing plate shifts-
barbaric waves and the terrifically brutal spew of molten
painting the landscape like a spirited artist with a palette of
hot orange,
black billowing smoke,
and fire-
the earth is angry-
that’s just one point of view-
a living mass of bound and shackled energy, bursting within
itself in a magma soaked rage,
the personification of angst and frustration with
no outlet but fury,
the elements of its true core still a mystery-
organically sustained destruction,
yet still fulfilling a predetermined purpose-
for each disaster, there are a thousand
seeds in bloom-
for each reaving of the landscape, there
are innumerable discoveries in waiting,
each exit creating a new beginning-
there is no end to its regeneration-
the great tortured soul,
the original self-immolator,
the flagellator of the ages,
concealing its guts with such a beautiful
stoned relentlessly for eons,
battered by its own children,
a lone voice among silent brothers,
eloquently patching over the steaming turmoil
boiling underneath-
take notes in her symbols-
where is hope, then?
in the bowels of the sea,
in the claustrophobic canals worming through
the core,
in the depth of the blue above,
each revealing signs of perseverance,
and the ability to overcome-
take notes in her symbols-
in the wooden arms and rustling
fingers of the winter trees,
pointing the way to heaven for those whose
eyes have been downcast too long-
for those who’ve forgotten which way to
but again, that’s just one point of view*


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