Massive mats of moss lay sown upon my miles-wide exterior,
while an inward, magma monstrosity demands, utilizing St. Helens’ 
mammoth and monotonous melody and method,
to produce longed-for, desperately coveted and joyous progressions,
all while
appearing merciless at the sight of the tsunami and the collapsing multiple double-decker’s affliction upon its victims.

My pleaded and prayed-for jolt,
the kind to release atom bomb energies and to immerse entire coasts,
was finally gifted to me via fateful heavens, as unexpectedly as it was, still, inevitable.
No longer am I at risk of the Ring of Fire’s roast.
Those burgundy bottles are now sunk at the bottom of the Mariana to never to be remembered against me,
purposefully hollowed when I dunked them to sinks so my bloom could be for all to see—never again to be self-hindered.
I revoked my imprisonment to a wine cell—
not a cellar—
that one obstructing my vitally inspiring view of the stellar. 

Admittedly, 
three convinced me
to deny a self-worth,
one bought for a hefty fee
since before my birth.
Earthshattering shame
ensued and ensnared.

And, once I embraced the fact I, myself, embraced them to do so—
my lustful succumbing to three forms of the same dimpled face,
I learned the moon should influence, yes,
but never dictate the green of the Earth.     
I allowed satellites of long-legged, deep-eyed, luscious-lipped, and sundress-ed satellites to reorient my rotation,
until I finally accepted, it is violent eruptions, not orbits, that forged lasting land formations.
And, like how lunar tugs only complement and not govern the sea,
I spun 
countless days and nights, while she 
would take a monthly leave of absence,
toiling and shifting to make certain I’d never need her as she needed me. 

I did so 
not ‘cause I don’t gleefully bask in and wholesomely appreciate her glow;
in fact, I relentlessly morphed and evolved to keep her from being flung into merciless and warmth-ridden space.
Her response to my effort…is a disrespectfully gradual, and, yet, consistent motion of ungrateful defiance.  
Every year, she’s moving away a full inch now, to the point the sun fades from her decreasingly 
brilliant mirror.

The AstroTurfs dubbing themselves “family and friends” fared no better.
When I faded to black, the color unfairly and maliciously dubbed as evil and wicked,
I ached, moaned, and thrashed
as a world should 
when abused and mauled by those given the unearned duty of its maintenance.
Crude-based greenery
became their only pitifully lazy standard for measuring our lives’ worths.
Sadly, any efforts of my day-in-day-out, sacrificial toil can only accomplish so much, when pleads to those akin to the surface
to recognize the very cosmic rays bubbling cumulonimbus and driving currents 
are the closest of friends with melanin are excruciatingly met with pitiful inquiries about how we can stay in the ways of the age of ice.    

This jolted catastrophe was “San Andreas” overdue.  And, to say the cries of dismay and despair and the crackling, crimson crumbles of their comforting constructs 
and 
ideals of what my existence should and shouldn’t be aren’t savory, soothing, and sanctimoniously satisfying would be a violation of the Ninth Commandment.  
I embody Kilauea’s monstrously majestic, twenty-eighteen example,
gushing a righteous anger for purposes of bringing comfort to the afflicted and affliction to unjustly comfortable. 
In twenty-six, I’ve systematically made green glass, moldy mantras, stained teeth, scintillating serpents, flimsy fellows, finicky flesh, un-social media, dastardly overstayed self-doubt, self-poisoning vanity, self-inflicted calamities, and my cowardly consumerism—all made as attempts 
to cement a void only The Maker’s purpose can suffice—
molten-mauled and amber-warped.
Despite atrocities ‘o plenty upon the crust,
my core’s integrity dutifully and stubbornly stands as intact.
And, because vengeance is His, 
He’ll extract 
the most divinely accurate kind of justice that could ever exist,
when shockwaves encircle the globe, eradicating all obsolete and bitter life—
when the thousand-foot-wide mountainside violently vents.

And, when the toxic plums dissipate, 
ash converts to mulch, 
and the furious flows cool,
‘tis an island jolt and emergence from the mystical and compassionately contrasting azure who’s embedded and indebted to faithful bedrock.
Its ferocious and fortified forge will symbolize yours and my life anew;
this arisen ridge stands as the lighthouse, stronghold, and safe haven,
for
empowerment…knowledge…brotherhood…empathy…and…most importantly, salvation.
I’m now a sovereign nation where only constructiveness is allowed to dock.

From the Soul,

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“Tectonic (Poem)” is a piece from my upcoming published anthology, “Return from the Pale Trail: Gifts to Humanity We’ve Been Taught to Forget.” I’m ecstatic to share this wonderful piece of literature with all of my fellow literary enthusiasts and with all the newcomers to the wide universe of literary art. I’ve been hard at work handcrafting this piece for 3 years because I wanted to push myself to provide my readers with the highest quality possible of a literary experience. Until its release, feel free to check out my other published materials.