She is born of fire
and hides a fury deep within.
Resting under cover of muted black
she never really sleeps;
ever waiting, ever ready.

And then she wakes,
lifts up her head,
spews forth her molten breath
and cloaks herself in clouds
of dust and smoke and ash.

She stretches,
reaching forth to claim her prize
taking what she wants 
and crushing it,
like eggshells in her fingers.

She rages,
while chasing fear before her,
and tempting those who dare stay
to admire her in awe
until at last, again she rests.


august 2002