Ignimbrite Mite

This is Pyroxene not Ignimbrite, but real Ignimbrite is fucking boring in photographs.

 

Tiny bells of dying fire

igniting single signatures inside the stone

a burning word that locks the blazing choir

and opens if when called and then is gone.

The churning flow begs prayers from the crust

whines and curls the continental shield.

It learns a metamorphic spoken trust

and spells the planets voice, the sphere must yield.

Annihilation vacation, lava's jubilee.

A stone-thick fog rolls liquid on the land

a fluid fixed, the mountains squealing glee.

Your lungs boil in your chest your skin is sand,

your culture lost to time, your shape preserved

a last life's moment frozen by the blaze

and, crystalled with you there, the mountains word.

That secret sentence sounded over days

learnt by magmatic tides, in plasmic voice

with whale-length wavelengths whispered to the rock.

Each living, breathing syllabic choice

had mind and impish thought to spurn and mock

but held in slow pronunciations chains

it struggled until spoken, then was free

and danced and raced before the welding rain

and saw a cities death and laughed with glee.

Like spheres cast circles shadowed on the page

their shapes are three-dimensioned silhouettes,

ghost verbs encoded by a world-less mage.

A song from higher spaces whose laws let

the sound-imps seem to shift their forms in ours,

like sparks and flickers, burning words, or birds,

some sealed within the rock that builds the tower

that tombs the town and and plaster-cakes the herd

like curls of black inside the stone, ash-flowers

to be released when Tuff is cut or falls.

But, some un-bonded phonemes dodge the blow

and, wisping in a zig-zag seek earths call

they hunt around the halls where monsters go

they sing and cackle, mocking endless night

and bounce around the heads of questing fools

joy-smug for not embracing ignimbrite

that slowly-flaking grave of living words.

If cunning minds should trap them, learn their words

and lantern them in braille-rows to regard

the sentence strung, a row of readed crowns,

those same minds grasp the speech that mutters far.

And un-knots the earth

and kills it in the night.