There is this constant flowing

of lava;

secrets and destroyers of lives.

Swimming—

no, bubbling—

singing just below the surface.

 

The red hot, 

momentous

mass creeps closer and closer to the brim.

A town, ignorant in the ways of secrets pushed deep 

in the cavernous underground of their hearts, 

but peaceful.

No, peaceful isn’t right—

more like they are quiet,

composed,

but in the way that the lava inside their heart is.

 

The town is its own volcano

with the threat of its own magma.

Theirs is just as damaging as the individuals.

Merciless,

but in the type of way where

they really didn’t mean for it to appear that way—

for it to come out that way

 

But the volcano has already erupted,

and the spewage of alphabet soup can not be retracted—

cannot be taken back.

All we can do now is wait for it all to happen over again,

and hope that the world recovers from each and every disaster—

hope that the land can return back to peaceful pastures—

peaceful pastures with the animosity underneath to power 200 more eruptions.