With sustained winds of a-hundred-ninety-five mph
and gusts up to two-hundred-and-thirty-five,
it’s no wonder that so many people can’t
enjoy island life or, worse, are no longer alive.
Bodies in water, bodies on bridges,
bodies on side of road, die
everywhere, flesh rotting over
and under heaps of rubble, piled high.

Bodies impaled by floating debris,
as hidden under water it veers
fresh water salted by 5-meter ocean wall
and saline of human tears,
leaving thirst that reaches into
the infinite depths of sorrow’s abyss.
Too many are those that have seen
devastation as wide-spread as this.

Roads washed out, blocked by debris,
lights no longer brightly shining
electricity compromised or totally gone,
leaves dark clouds, no silver lining.
Food, clothing, shelter, all taken away.
Then, tropical low Zoraida stirred hot air.
Its blowing winds more rain delivered,
leaving citizens drowning in their despair.

Thankfulness for being alive now replaced
by constant worries about how to survive
with not only homes but cities destroyed
leaving no sustenance and no place dry.
As competition pits survivor against survivor,
marring the complexion of the human face
a nation awaits worldwide compassion
its love and its support and saving grace.