Continental Rift

Always the sea tumultuous
How could it otherwise be
Over the things we can’t see, hear or touch,
Where the light does not venture
In the land where sulfur rules
Where the news comes floating down
Bits of the world
To things that do not know a tree.

If it grows cold,
There’s another smoky eruption
And colorless things rise on the flume
But not too far
For the bubble crushes down
Black with a shining tongue

And things scamper away
From the sense they do not know.
So it always is in the darkness.