As the outside seems so calm and beautiful,
While on the inside there’s something;
Something so dark, deep, and fiery.
The outside is as wonderful as a rose in the desert,
But as cold as the winter gust blowing.

Every calm cloud below is made up of some type of matter,
Just like this impeccable mountain,
Many parts of this cloud be broken down,
Only with simple force,
Anything is as powerful as an Ox,
As well as memory.

The fiery fumes and hot molten liquids,
Only flowing without resentment,
Striking on the inside,
Contradicting the calm, mellow, scenery on the outside.

Although the big rock still stands,
It came here and formed from broken pieces,
Not knowing what led to a strong huge piece,
Pieces unknown through life,
Pieces never found or ever are fixed,
That will never be seen with the naked eye daily,
But still creating something of beauty.

You never know pain is beauty,
Cold and hot,
Take a glimpse in the air, could be what you’re living in,
Or even what you feel, but through it all,
Nothing, just nothing can feel the way you feel unless you go inside that cold but hot din,
That still remains beautiful without knowing the broken pieces that which created, made, invented this deep hole,
That will soon explode with feelings;
Painless or Painful;
Still standing whether you feel or not feel,
Still, in one’s eye it is still glowing,
A beautiful but sentimental hill, which will still be standing strong and still.