maelstrom
the maelstroms are becoming more frequent. louder.
they put on their production, their wild-eyed babbling; scrambling over the earth, lurching and leaping
and clawing, insisting on our attention.
the land is left lacerated and bruised and tired. its breathing is labored and the air is thin, used up and
worn out from the frenzied mania.
it begins the slow process of collecting itself, and then another maelstrom arrives.
its raving gouges the ground, awakens geysers of dirt and filth, cyclones of shorn houses and fractured
grandeur. our cities have been ripped asunder like playthings of some aberrant Godchild left too long in
daddy’s office unsupervised.
each one’s whirling hysteria brings the land further and further beyond recognition. soon, there may be
nothing of us which remains; our golden, indomitable paradise rendered nothing more than a brittle shell
shattered on some jagged summit.
it is bloodletting for the sake of bloodletting. incomprehensible force used with no justification other than
its own existence.
we build our houses low to the ground, now. slow ourselves to the pace the tempests demand of us.
some have started to live in the mountains, hiding within the earth. this, too, is folly.
what is to stop a storm from simply shearing a mountain in two?