She is like a hurricane
the wind whipping so fast from the tears she spilled.
Blinding light coming from every direction
cold.
But not a freshly fallen snow, cold
more of a New York City feel,
and since this in the 21st century
I'm not allowed to be sad.
Poor naenae they will say,
She was beautiful.
The monstrous worms in the earth,
crawl all over, devouring her as they go.
And that beautiful naenae will cry
till she disappears into a puddle of sand.
Some will tell her to stop being so salty.
“She was a rainstorm of delusions” they said.
The perilous clock of panic.
Always ticking always talking,
maybe she will break, or sway.
“Au Revoir” she will say,
walking away, so all we see
is the short buzz of hair,
vibrant blue against the pink sunset.