an empty bucket of water in the pouring rain

there's tea brewing in my stomach,
heating water for a boil.
there's gasoline in my throat,
waiting for a lit match to be swallowed.
there's a fault line in my chest,
shifting into a record quake.
there's a volcano in my head,
rumbling for an eruption.

My heart is a wind storm,
pushing for a white squall.
My soul is a mirror,
searching for the peircing pitch that will shatter glass.
My hands are spoons,
digging crators on the dark side of a new moon.
My mind is an attic,
storing up everything for itself.