She glows red inside.
Until the mountain's roar begins.
The trees tremble beneath her sighs,
knowing the tide will soon rise
within her belly.

The core of all ideas of sin
subsisting only by whats within;
yet the cralwers and the stompers
the choppers and the bleeeders
the wanters the criers
the screamers and the needers
have the plastic vision
they make the skilless incision
into our lives
with old blunt knives.

Shes going to blow eventually
theres no stopping whats beneath
it will all melt suddenly.

It rumbles and it stores
waiting no more
no more
let it outpour
downpour
now
bow
down
to
her.

Anger.