And when the storm passes
The pale remains of your childhood rest exposed
Windows once pristine project your reflection back to you in a distorted and twisted fashion
As if God himself wanted to make a mockery of the sanctity of a home that was not his own
Rib like beams erupt where your bedroom once stood
Butter yellow curtains wave gently with the New Orleans breeze
To remind your six yearold self that the world is not just painful, but cruel.