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A speck on the globe, field of pure white,
Someone shook the world gently, for it now churns,
Not horrid or terrifying…but disconcerting.
Almost as if I am looking through a microscope
With a lens shaded in illusions and murk.
Now it is different. The world of shapes and globes
Transformed into the world of mist. Mist that does not sleep,
Mist ascending to me, or I descending to it, taken in by its enigma.
Not quite on a ship, but tumultuous still, to and fro,
A windmill disfigured and spun till it is shapeless, a blur.
Fog becomes rain, and rain becomes hail,
Twisting -- writhing! -- like a soul pulled far under!
Smashing against things that can be touched
And those, inside, that are roused by emotion.
Sins that the Savior expelled, gathered here in the storm
For nothing else is so frightful, so damaging, so damning.
To the guilty, it punishes, to the innocent, it punishes!
Impartial, faceless judge of the black world beneath!
Wind whips the earth into praying atonement
And waves unleash fury upon the cowed shores!
And the roar of the thunder is the Dark Prince channeled
And torrents beat down, leaving no stone unharmed!
Its end is its choosing, and it chooses to continue
Uncontrollable, defiant, the unspeakable terror!
Its hits nothing but nothing, and never not nothing,
But some things are nothing and nothing is not!
The eye, calmer deep within the barricade of gray
Raises its tired lid over the world, cruel mockery of peace.
Deceiver is the name of this siren of tranquility,
And gives way to its furious cousin, back to the wasteland.
A pebble, its days spent resting in sprawling sands golden,
Is plucked out of the womb and into the raging sea.
Disturbed, yes, and lost to a new journey,
It sees the storm as a cursed blessing, reluctantly resisted.
As quickly as it rampaged it, it slinks out in the barren night,
Unwanted visitor, molder of live sand the very earth to some form new,
Its pure power reflects locked safes of souls and conscience,
This wanton giant, this storm of perfection and fear…this…hurricane.