Hurricane winds

There is no calm,

there is no storm,

only a tornado.

 

Ripping through my wooden hut,

breaking every single strand,

piling wood upon wood,

beneath neat pieces of flesh.

 

Why do i care about the sunset?

I am a poor woodcutter.

The sun is too bright. The sun is too high,

I broke my arm reaching it.

 

Now do I pile wood

or do I dice my heart?

 

Night is approaching

Stars are haunting

Clock is ticking

 

And the sun goes down.

 

 

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