Rolling away the house, storm drains gushing,
Waters frothy, dirty too, flood of biblical flush
Torn asunder, carried away, always moving on
Maelstrom blowing, howling wolves at bay
Twisting conical clouds, ricocheting splinters flying
The land in turmoil, windows taped in forlorn crosses.
Lone a man shakes his head, huddled hallway havens.

Wet the ground, dead the air, pick the rubble.
Reflecting looks, still a flood rages on and on,
Clinging wetly, glancing wearily, crying silently.
Soup of destruction brought to boil, salted with tears.
All is lost, everything gone, nothing to rebuild.
Lone a man shakes his head, eyes red and puffy.

Words of solace, red cross hand-outs, unfulfilling rations.
Sit where you may, inky lines blurred on soaking maps,
Walk where you please, police cars stacked like dominos.
Cut off and beaten, flanked and surrounded, natural and primal.
Clawing out, running down, looting useless junk.
Lone a man shakes his head, staring at ironic bottled water.

Setting out for greener pastures, stepping over rubble,
Eyes downcast, foot-steps plopping, soles pruning,
March, march, march, steady cadence, tempo picking up.
Running, running, running, heartbeat marching band.
Land still broken, people still dismaying, lives still blow apart.
Swatch of destruction across from the sea, wet oblivion taking all.
Lone a man shakes his head, home strapped to his back.

From wet to dry, ocean to desert, pruning to cracking.
Lands bleakly change, extremes apparent, poles opposite.
Lungs breathing aerated sand,  storm clouds long in coming.
Tarmac cracked and drifted over, paradise of the water-scorned.
Yet, dropping napsack bundle from wooden pole, nightmares come.
Lands unwelcome, steely one-eyed gazes, demons wearing man's skin.
Lone a man shakes his head, turning right back to water again.