Cycles

She would always let his volatile, volcanic wrath
flow over her splendor like a molten bath,
consuming her gentle, flowery meekness
until his rage subsided to ashen bleakness,
then she bloomed again to beautify their island life,
telling soothsayers she was, after all, his wife;
and despite the dark fume circles around her eyes
and the rumbling “fault” lines beneath the blackening skies,
she thought the evacuation alarms but poor advice,
wanting to believe marriage a tropic paradise.

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