Where does the need come from?
Can I pursue the source, pull out tenuous root –
die sensuously to lead a normal life?
No – the root feeds a dark craving
to drive a wild passion fruit in to my skin,
to burn ardent flames brighter than a man.

I loosely slap on my moral fibers – deep grays
and attempt a sacrificial purity, an impure sacrilege.
The soul core is of magma kept under pressure,
suppressed by a mountain of granite.
I am unable to find the fount
where my heart lava ebbs.

Is there a science to discover here –
the “art” and “ology” of releasing volcanoes?
If so, I am a pioneer.


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