Mount Ire

Toes twist in the dry dirt,

dredging up the crust hanging over resting magma.

It rapidly bubbles to the top with blatant disregard

for all but what stands at its side.

The burn climbs out of the gut,

fortifying blind flight of fists through bloody mist.

That forever-singing flower blossoms across the chest

snaking tendrils this way and that,

strangling any sensible semblance.

Runaway tears threaten to spill over the edge

as thorns lay vines to the sinuses up through the nostrils,

and shrivel the throat to deny spoken reason.

An unstoppable force once it started flowing,

inherent to every mount.