Cyclone

the warm flank unyielding, desperately seeks the heights of cold air necessary for birth. violence spreads my potential over the helpless land below. rotation is my master. my time is not yet. the cycle starts again. i await my chance to destroy. my power builds and pulsates with wicked anticipation. my eye catches a row of silos. wooden staves held together by pitiful nails. ferocious energy courses through my black wind as the cold accelerates toward the ground, fusing with heat. the rain stops and the dismal sky begins its spin. 

birth.

my genesis modest as i gather inches above the ground, plucking shrubs and small trees, testing the turbulence of my vortex. the warm darkness above my engine, fueled by the debris below. my destructive dance begins. i jump over cornfields for a red barn. more fuel. the sound of splintering wood barely audible against my deafening howl. a farmhouse prostrates in submission to my fury. 

growth.

with the savagery of a hungry wolf, i carve my way through countryside. i feel the sudden call of my new master, cold air. i thrash and twist towards the warmth of the valley, but icy wind encircles my core, squeezing life from me. i avoid buildings and seek the welcoming dale, but my time has come. in my final rage, i focus my viciousness on a large water tower. with an unharnessed rage unknown to worldkind, i release a mangled piece of metal and the tower crumples. my wretched existence gives in to the persistence of the cold and i retreat upward to my crypt. 

death.