The hands of a poet
are being used to
hide her face.
She finds safe
nests
in lava covered
plateaus
(convincing herself
that it’s for the best).
She’ll use the
intense heat and
distorting burn marks,
to her advantage.
She thinks that it’ll
make
a great prose piece
someday.
Her stick is pen,
and her paper
superseded
with fiery floors.
Her words
never made less
sense—
but she can’t stop
now.
The lava is beginning
to cool,
and her words may be
set earthbound…forever.
While attempting to
engrave her masterpiece,
she chisels the shape
of her hard round
face
into the ground.
The edges aren’t too
jagged,
but neither are hers.
And when the earth
hardens
her face softens into
its core.
This poet,
this glimmering
creator
of passion and rhyme,
claims
that she can’t see
you,
so you can’t see her.