Mt. St. Helens was a pimple-pop scabbed over on the face of the Earth.
We named her whisper Katrina,
and put her laughter on the Richter scale.
Sometimes she cries, and we debate whether it was a tidal wave or a tsunami.
There are roughly one hundred trillion human cells in your body
and by the time you die, you are ninety percent microbe -
so there are one quadrillion of them.
When the earth washes her face,
what right do we have to complain, and write a book about a displeased God?
View User's Journal
Carpe Diem Ad Muertum
Sieze the day, to the death. There is no potential that shall be passed by, there is no piece of glory to fall by the wayside, there is no soul to left unsaved by the brilliance of language. As writers, we are gods.
 |
