Whispers of the Whirlwind

A sky, bruised purple, against the flat horizon. The air, thick, a suffocating blanket, holding its breath. Then, a whisper, a low growl, the earth's tremor beginning. Not a cloud, but a darkness, descending, a twisting, reaching finger, a hungry maw, opening. Debris dances, a macabre ballet, leaves, branches, roof tiles, shattered lives, caught in the whirlwind's embrace. The roar, not of thunder, but a primal scream, the earth's raw, untamed fury, a violent birth, a destructive wrath. After, the silence, heavy, thick with dust, a landscape rearranged, a scar etched deep into the soul. What is power, but chaos unleashed? What is fragility, but the human heart, exposed? A question mark hangs, suspended, in the still, broken air. ©bfa032225