Out in the wild where danger lurks,
She curses and stomps her unholy feet.
She moves ahead at a speed unmatched,
Without warning, striking like a viper,
As she devours everything in her path.
She sings to the Sultan of the wicked wind,
To the glory of Mother Nature’s strength,
To the power beyond all earthly power,
And whistles from her colossal pipes,
A song to the devil, her romantic fling,
Her love affair with the macabre,
An ode to disaster and what it brings,
A digging into the bowels of the earth,
And dragging out the life once lived,
Stuffing it through her fat salivating lips,
Swallowing it like the hungry seas,
Laughing at the way it goes down and down,
Like a dying ship on the way to its fate.
She is a lady with no love nor tears.
Her perilous beauty is in her vortex.
She plays with life as if it were a toy.
She hides high up in the skies,
Then strikes without warning,
And sweeps up everything in her way.
She’s that wild twisted wind,
That impenitent tornado,
That unwelcome guest,
That devil’s whistle,
That hungry child,
That bestial one,
She is, she is.
editors note: We can only hunker down, till she passes; clean up after. – mh clay