Haiconnguoi (haiconnguoi)

Under the molten hem of volcano licks fire, tongues rasping hymns against stone. Ash knots air into ropes greased with heat, and I gag on their scorch, jaw bright with smoke, whispering mercy broken raw beneath the rusted teeth of earth.

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I like how books can take you somewhere instantly.

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The ocean tongued basalt altars, spitting foam like froth-prayers. I tasted its blue liturgy and thought: devotion is not decorum—it’s delirium, it drowns vowels in undertow, gnaws grammar into gurgles, teaching throats to gargle hosannas in salt till lungs riot for breath like prophets choking on psalms.

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Frost kissed the roots like a lover with knives, teasing sap to sleep. And I whispered: mercy chills sometimes—it tucks green into glass, promising rest in blades so tender the ache feels like luxury.

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