The earthquake is one isolated,
Unseen by passerby.
The disaster tears its creator apart from the inside,
And only when the damage is done,
When the buildings have withered away,
When the trees and grass and flowers have fallen out at the root,
When the fire has ignited the heart of the city,
When the sun has burned out and the life has been diminished,
Only then will the outsiders take notice.
Blue, red, and white lights will wash out the dark,
Suddenly engulfing the wasteland in blinding awareness.
The outsiders crowd,
Analyzing the damage.
Teams of armed helpers swarm inland,
Picking and prodding at the city.
This city,
Merely a mind,
Contemplates accepting or denying,
Blocking all out or taking some in.
An empty plate stares back.
The grumbling of a stomach brings forth the next earthquake.

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