The mountains here
are elusive—
their peaks snow-capped
and shrouded by
cloud creep.
On occasion,
the gloom clears,
and they appear
in the distance—
severe and
cataclysmic.
When Rainer blows
its ancient top,
the city sprawl
will dawn a shawl
of searing soot
and choking chalk.
Imagine
a modern-day Pompeii,
shocked frames gripping
iPhones and Lattes.
Any day could be
the last day.
This truth looms-
always.
Not just in
volcanic
shade.
How will you
be petrified?
Alive and watching
the word ignite
with wide eyes?
Or hunched and
oblivious to
your spewing
Mount Vesuvius?
The choice
never if
or when
but how
we die.
pm poetry 