Volcanic - Skylar Thomas
poetry ☆
poetry ☆
He was able to let himself forget
like the lapping froth that bubbles on shore in a mere drift, and mercifully recedes to reveal the just barely tarnished sand, a darkness left behind that will grace him with its dissipating soak.
I was left to the ravage of my burning memory, a jagged temple left to the vulnerability of his violent magma, seeping into the cobbled streets and plush meadow beds, turning the gushing testament of doomed love to be buried under resentment’s cruel ash and boil.
The flaking cask of a woman lies in fetal terror in the temple’s fountains, her shins and knees and elbows still darkened by the thrashing water she once waded in before her death by pure desolation.
She holds a goblet in her former hands, now shriveled papyrus that only confirms the shape of appendages, but lacks all physical evidence of recognizable fingers and their prints.
In the midst of the magma’s flood, she had scooped in vain at the fountain’s water, splashing her face with the contents and letting the last sweetness drown her lungs as one downs a poison before the certainty of their end.
An aching Desdemona, she fell victim to murder by love tainted by some Iago more violent than she had prepared for. To be killed sweetly by the fluffs of the marriage bed was not granted, only the scathing undoing in the heat of misunderstanding.
The woman felt each and every burn crawl up and down her skin, every brunt of fire’s teeth as it eats away at the good, the innocence that once believed it could be contained by stoking and sticks.
I look at this mold made in my likeness, and pour gunk-chilled water feebly atop the fountain’s bowls once more for her.
Skylar Thomas is a passionate creative writer and avid reader from Bel Air, Maryland. She holds a BA in English and feels most at home in the world of literature, especially when crafting her own work. When she’s not experimenting with words, she can be found wandering antique stores and searching for the romantic details of reality.
