Sitting alone in a whirlwind
Black center and hail pellets
Scattered platters of food
Drowned out conversations,
mumbled spit up

Can't calm the angered nature
of broken class in a sheepish world
Twelve days until the broken
symphony sings in front of a
          tidal wave

Twenty four hours until yesterday
Spin cycle repeats deceit
What more is there than then?
When everything stops spinning
and the wind eats karma
for breakfast with Mother Nature
on Sunday morning.