I believe that volcanoes never really want to blow;
they just get provoked when their ground shifts below.
It’s just not a good look
when your clouds turn to ash
and your face folds with fire,
when your mood turns to strife
and your friends leave your life.
As the shaking subsides
they stare from new eyes.
Then the quaking divides
your sight to blue skies.
A paradox then as the trees grow anew
and the streams start to trickle.
Sun shining again; on flowers so fickle.
The valley forgets about its new coat of gloss.
The mountain remembers; and weeps for its loss.
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Author:
Brimelow (
Offline) - Published: March 5th, 2021 21:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetry_Lover
Offline)
Comments2
Super imagery! Love the idea of giving a volcano a personality.
The greenery always recovers and takes over. The greenery taking over when man refrains from cutting it back was my main theme in photography and to see it recounted here is refreshing. You're inspiring me. LOL
I enjoyed reading this piece.
Nicely done Brimelow! Loved it.
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