Gale winds blowing roughshod on a hot summers night
Cutting through old farm land in a rampage ’til light
Knocking down pale green stock and twisting old brown
Spiral in wild circles while they’re falling down
These eroding acres have become the norm
We’ll claim our piled wreckage after the storm

Corn fields flat and broken looks more grapes of wrath
Every step a sinkhole blowing up in our path
Pull my t-shirt from my torn jeans while I find a place
Stomp a shovel into hot dirt as cold sweat heats my face
Cutting through barren soil find old roots are unformed
We’ll claim our piled wreckage after the storm

Once a blooming crop maze now clear land spreads for miles
Everything grown and toiled become empty stockpiles
Seedlings we plant and nourish expecting to sprout
Corrode into nothing more than useless grout
Clods of soil crunching squall into a dust swarm
We’ll claim our piled wreckage after the storm

With nothing else to harvest nothing left to replace
The railroad in the distance no longer seem out of place
Train whistle growing louder as it comes into view
I tie my tattered shoe strings and step into queue
Sometimes there’s no option still I’m feeling forlorn
To leave our piled wreckage after the storm

Composition ‘After the Storm’ and photo Existential Earache by me.