To go into the dark swirling mass,

to see all the chaos

surging

throughout the house.

To witness this spiraling whirlwind

consuming

the house, leaving despair

and destruction.

To listen to the sound of her cackling,

spinning and twirling.

She isolates herself in a cyclone

of disjointed thoughts.

To try to communicate with the blank

wall, receiving no answer and falling

deeply

into her wide-eyed stare.

She’s broken, emotionless, helpless.

To walk into the kitchen and see the bottles

of sour ale towered around the dining table, plastic bags trying to eat it away.

To have the smell of ash

trapped within the house, lungs

tightening

at the scent.

To view the Tower of Babel forming

in the kitchen. Plates and bowls

teetering,

silverware soaking in grimy water.

To run away from these sights and smells

for fear of entering

that gloomy mass, the anger

swelling,

the demon reaching out to caress.

To be the child of the storm.