Volcanoe woman erupt in the night, red glowing matter, born again energy of our universe like stars drip their solar tears, embers slide engulfing trees in the new.
Progeny bursts out black and charred but with the will and reason to be, lava colored flesh pushing off the surface, shaking clean the molten crust, fiercely flipping of face chest and arms reaching to the sky, the land, the vast uncertain future, beckoning the right to what’s theirs, progression of this new world born of chaos, limbs of salt and flame, chewed up.
Don’t you miss me?
I’m here now, the small and fragile past tremble, cowering under old branches shading patches of soft grass they sit til petals grow from their skin, fluttering flowers pattering like butterfly wings against dried out old bones.
Sex, money, power discomforts their sleeping state. The status quo of perfect order grinding out its slow conclusion.
Lava breathes over, soil bubbles. The birth of the Minotaur has come. Its hoof steemed and pressed into the mud, worms and roots snapped and shuddered under beast. Strapped harnessed, unchained body brushes it’s own will to the point of its desire, snout puffed, eyes bleeding flames of desire. Horns flexed their polished and pointed threat to the rumbling skies under which he was born thirty two wretched years prior the earth summoned his greater purpose unfulfilled in the greatness of his strength.
When will the Viking call through his hollow horns, bellowing echoes to the mountains for, marching pelts to fill the hills and gather from man their plunder? When will he be hungry enough to shed his resting fur and ride the Minotaur to lava’s edge?