Summer clouds, crept bloated and gray,
casting a sepia light.
Groaning and sick, the clouds gave way
Roaring its thunderous might.

Sara was bored in her office that night.
The doors and windows shut.
She earned little money, though she was bright,
she lived in a cyclical rut.

The ceiling crumbled speckles of dust.
The roof and walls creaked.
Stabbing alarm wrenched at her gut.
As distant sirens shrieked.

She craweled beneath her desk to seek 
refuge from the wind.
She was strong, the building weak
the cyclone tore on in.

In gusts the violent winds and howls abruptly reached its peak.   
Then calm - it was alright.
From scenery of broken debris, computers and papers so bleak,
her heart was free and light.

The End

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