Believers and non-believers collide
Where hope and bridges are built to unite
Swords and blades sparring in stark, open side
Oil in flames devouring grounds that ignite.
Pillars and towers of creeds in graphite
Melting away like rhyolite of quartz
Freezing as ornaments, crystallized parts.
Geologists say ‘by your leave’,
we’re famously polite:
we wear our heart upon our sleeve,
rejoice at rhyolite.
We’re very patient people, but
I tolerated stuff before
that I’m not taking any more:
up with this I will not put.
Don’t bring to me your xenolith,
preposterous, fantastic:
I’m done with make-believe and myth:
my ire is pyroclastic.
Don’t tell me pressure makes a gem,
discomfort forges what’s sublime:
the aimless drip of frameless time
creates a speleothem.
Some things improve with age, it’s true,
while others just feel dated:
to sleight of hand, to me and you,
I’m simply indurated.
I’m wise to every move you make –
I’m distanced from your wiles,
meanders, stratagems and smiles -
a placid oxbow lake.
I swallow my secrets,
sour, acidic pills,
chipped pieces of the bizarre
that oxidate in my throat.
Iridescent webs shimmer,
facets of pebbles
spectulate over my weaknesses
gossiping along tempered veins
and sharply curved intersections,
of the igneous archipelagos
accumulated in my stomach.
Suburban blades
carve impulsive lesions
to tempt me from my mountain
but my lips are sealed
Molten rhyolite drivel winks,
folding self within self
tainted carbons,
manipulating hues,
flaunting volcanic stigmattas
best left suppressed
unless the light betrays
my tinted stones
and bright whispers flicker
from silent clefts
to escape my ranting eyes.
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