The neighbouring volcano is
awakening. At last, says
Old Pinatubo to its young mentee,
but you do not do it like me;
like I did, had done.
intense, all-consuming
unlike you, a trap: covering
house by house with smog
like how you would boil a frog
slowly filling in each nostril
with every piece of your sulphur thrill
That was history.
Of course, is the reply.
Nothing can ever be the same,
only illusions, semblances of shame.
No one else does it like you.