"Aftermath"

It never leaves, just shifts,
Sometimes it's in the frontal lobe,
     At others, in my throat,
Croaking like a smoking witch,
Dry, inflammable.
Then, horribly erupts in seas so vast 
They cleanse the Earth.
For some reason, you open
               Floodgates 
With that haunting, wolf-gaze,
Your brush,
Your camera.
I know you know.
(The artist knows all, and why I needed you.)