Sometimes I ache in a way
that makes me think I should be a
volcano erupting, a force that surges
splitting earth and spitting fire,
so deliberate in my destruction
that a second is preserved
under ash for an eternity;

that’s why I want to erupt,
I think, because I want to stop.
I want to live the Bermuda triangle
of existences: unexplainable
and tempestuous, but always in
control, able to halt time and
swallow whole existences.

I don’t want my youth to be
wasted away now; I want
to consider an ancient yew
young and laugh at changed
constellations each time I
venture to the surface. I
have always felt the pull

of the earth in my bones,
of times long ago lived.
I fear it is too much to ask
that I go forth with knowledge
when I begin anew, for
the water in my well is
plenty deep enough to
drown in.


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