Vulcanism

Of course so much of what I write is shit
It hardly seems worth digging through the trash
To find the magma underneath the ash
And bare the fiery torrents of my wit.
Perhaps volcanic fires have been lit,
But 'til the shelf collapses with a crash,
The dirt above them hides them, while they splash
Unnoticed in a deep internal pit.
The trash heap is erected on the cone,
Hiding beneath anything of worth,
And letting the volcano remain dormant.
Yet from a certain very kind informant
I hear the weight of so much wasteful earth
Will soon ignite the mountain 'til it's blown.