Sleeping Volcano

The breeze nips the bristles of my beard, The horse carriage squeals while we plunge deeper into the storm. Fog coats the path, fire in the distance, Is someone there? The faintest of lights blinds dear old Buckshot, The closer we get, the brighter it gets, Buckshot thrust his feet up in a halt, In disbelief I walk toward this crevasse in the earth, Such destruction and such beauty, Lava expanding and condensing, A calm within the storm, I gazed into this beauty and gaze became strong I peeked right down to the center, and strange thoughts obscured my mind, Could I make it to the bottom? January 10 2019