Tornadoes are worse at night,
when no one gives them credit —
this one a thief inscribing his name on the ground.
We know that dawn will be honest with us,
revealing judgments that heaven had planned,
but until then, the radio speculates into darkness
with words that shake against my ribcage.
For now, no one knows for sure.
A hundred flashes have hidden the stars,
and I feel the sorrow of a window that wants to break.
It seems that thunder has invited itself, pounding on doors
and waking even old men and atheists from their sleep.
Fear is an apologist, but it is silence that scares us the most,
the seconds after the paper is torn, and we are alone.