After the top blow,

livid with smoke-gas and tephra,

no halcyon breeze there to please anyone,

a portion of blast bombs,

rocky and cinderous,

returned to the crater

to clot the hot viscous pool,

forming a plug that finally congealed,

hardened by water and cold atmosphere.

But half way down

a side vent stayed open,

splurging slow gouts

of white orange lava

that slipped downslope.

Caustic fumes eructed in spires,

anger commingled with ash,

sharp shards cut through the air:

the acid vapors and scurrilous

gases hating the proximal life,

the bushes and trees,

the vines and small creatures

that crawled through ravines

and cracked gulches

where drops of water were saved.

On it went for years that vent,

erratically spouting

an idea of discontent

deep from its core filled with magma,

spilling its hot gum

and spewing its gases, 

the foul debris of its gut,

out from some underworld source,

seething with cesspools of confounded rage,

pain, and sorrow,

until all who used to venture there

kept away.