Disasters enfold, plates shift,
our mother has waken,
maybe a sign of the times,
or maybe I'm mistaken?
A 7.0 scale mark,
can somebody call a medic?
Violence descends from 200 years,
and I can't find a doorway in hear
She stays breathing,
moving, hungry,
we all live on top of her gears
If we grind them hard enough
she'll represent our ducts real tears