people . . . .

i watch them go by
in cars and on scooters.

people.

i have no need
of cars and scooters
for i
am not people.

i
am the chant of faceless lamas
in malodorous monasteries
the music
of smoke rising from
discarded cigarette butts
the howl of a haunted wolf
on a windblown night
the whisper
of an unseen waterfall
somewhere
in the hills, and at times
the fury of earthquakes
and tornadoes and tidal waves
all combined.

i can never be
people
i tried once
and the girl in my arms withered
and became
dust, in my embrace.

i picked up the remnants of her bones
and built a room
and hung her skull
on the doorframe.

people.
they pass me by.
they know the story of the skull
on my doorframe.
they read it in my eyes
and recoil.

i cannot blame them.

who would stand
in the path of a volcano ?