I live atop a smoldering volcano,
always rumbling and threatening to erupt.
I’m used to the smoke,
my skin so grey on cloudy days
I melt into the landscape.
I’m used to the noise;
it’s my lullaby when,
having exhausted myself in the balancing,
I finally collapse.
Why, you wonder, don’t you climb down?

Oh, I’ve tried standing tall,
surveying the pitted surface
that slopes to civilization,
but acrophobia grips me,
talons relentless, sending me spinning
into such mindless panic
I’m dizzied and must sit, trying my best to breathe.
The devil you know, you know…
It may seem an odd request,
but I pray for a pyroclastic flow.