Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Fault lines

Island nation,

Once a haven between cold-shouldered continents

Was it the eruption

The molten fingers diffusing across your topography

suffocating every frond in their path

Liquid heat

consuming even the fire ants

Or the tremor,

8.3 on the Richter scale

Severing the last connection of your faulty earth

A trembling even the ancient roots

could not withstand

With jagged edges

Two broken masses float apart

Lost at sea

avoiding the continents at either side

The pool of faces crammed at coastlines

hoping to catch a glance

Of this phenomenon.

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