It sneaks when goodness takes a stroll through who knows where,
It crashes when pleasure has adopted a seat,
Its sinister smirk, dark— his joy is not something bottled up, for he expresses it indefinitely through the horrific aftermath.
Do you not have any shame?
Do you not feel apologetic?
Disaster doesn’t care. He lacks the thing labeled pity, sorrow— hurt. That’s the word.
Disaster makes his next mark elsewhere and parts.
He leaves everyone else stuck with no savior,
No hero,
No heroine,
No felicitousness,
No hope,
Just a disaster.