The tremors that hit the heart,

A drop in the bucket compared to

The many earthquakes and floods

And fires, shape it into something

We don’t recognize.

Red like a beet, but dimmer than

A lightbulb, it shocks our system

And short circuits our brains

And makes them just a car in

A carport, rather than the highways

We prefer. Without them

We are a dull husk, with them

A Frankenstein’s monster

Lumbering, lonely, but alive.