The Deluge

She looked out of the window, the weather savage;
rain pelted the tarmac, hammered the broken cobbles, bulldozed the weeds to a mince.
If this was some pathetic  fallacy her Professor talked about, how accurate it was.
She flung the windows open- the wetness came flushing in.
It painted the walls, dusted the wardrobes, drenched the bed, the savage wetness did not stop there.
It clambered over the bathroom sink, the kitchen stove, and splayed the low ceiling. It sunk the Bombay Dyeing flowers on the sheet-the Savage.
She watched the Savage on a rampage, the wetness conquering her piddly pigeon hole- in the maximum city.
Shut the window, you fool, you are in for just desserts!
Don't you know the walls will peel, the wardrobes, doors, the fancy wood on the piddly ceiling will rot?
Who will then redo it, should you willfully destroy, what you cannot restore? What not!
She stood there transfixed by the voice, the Savage now a wet puddle below her feet.
The puddle on the floor swirling the microscopic dust into a whirlpool...
The dust! Clean it now- said the voice-where is it, said she?
The voice grabbed the broom and dust pan and pointed at the offending mountain.
Where is it, she had repeated.
She saw it now, the puddle swirled the dust mountain into a creamy slush.
The Savage then sprayed her poems, loose ends of rants, puked on paper napkins, grocery bills, school fee receipts, to-do lists, price tags and labels, her scribbled nothings joined the now merry mountain turned dusty slush on the fancy white marble floor.
Dust and scribbled nothings
The Deluge savaged them all.