/The local name of the 4th typhoon. The poem started calm and collected before exposing it to thoughts of mayhem./

And the winds of Paeng whispered for every tree to fall.

My condominium embraced by pine trees took its toll.

Condensed with electricity-

Saturating for half a century-

Where the news was always old,

45 dead, 18 missing.

My countrymen drowning

I'm 1/2 writing this, 1/2 screaming.

The sea shredding itself like my newspaper- As flood entered the mouth

Of my motherland.

And I wrote: I've had enough! O!

Grey,

green,

and white

the colors of her dress-

Chaos sewn! Embroidered with death!

As she spins in our rooves and

skipped-

On skyscrapers.

In a deadly dance devastating the 'already dead' rested on mudbank graves,

the demons in destined hell,

the deaf demolished

from her damp dirge.

Another morning to mourn...

Another night of fright...

The little lass left laughter for family-contained cars floating upside

-down as brown waters rushes through the lungs of children like a first breath. And I screamed:

"I've had enough! O!"

And on her watchful eye, akin to a father.

The world beneath was craven to make a sound, akin to a mother.

He, a dangerous calmness, she of frightened stasis,

Only happens if the world is between the screams of God and Satan.