Claying God

I build a mock society out of claydo

Babies are in their cradle

Old ladies are eating bagels

Men and women line up in a row

But none of them know 

That in store for this show is a tornado.

I feel feet scatter

Like windows shatter

Pattering my palms with panic

Alarm sweeps and swirls up the frantic

Extremities breaking apart and melding together

Unfurled and severed

Resembling my own disassembled endeavors

By the winds of thought up weather

And the rage I engage with tiny finger pressure

I ball them up

Mixed up 

And put them back in their cup--

Disposing of their posing charade

By closing the lid on the carnage I made.



The End

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