Why is it shaking again?

The world would shake,

and it all would flow red.

The aftershocks left-

the pain struck down dead.

Leeve and dam,

pushed back the tide.

The ruins from it,

are all easy to hide.



Now restless to unload their unwanted tears.

Why do these clouds quiver and sway?

There are no ripples in the waters below,

so why do the currents switch way?

No foot step or voice in the distance,

to have a loud echo rebound.

Eardrums vibrate in violence,

leaving no space for more sound.

The air is stiff and unmoving,

but all hairs stand, bow and bend.

A mirage beneath these dancing follicles,

too real and too bright, without end.



Dust away swiftly,

with sharp broom tip nails,

painted pitch black,

like train track guard rails.

The gloss easily chips,

opening space in this gate.

The world shakes again,

and my will is too late.