Nothing Left

I'm a week behind, I know. Last week, I just wasn't feeling it, you know? Although, this blog's purpose is to keep me writing even when I'm not feeling it. Eh, I suppose I have room to fail sometimes. Anyway, I do have something to post this week.

Hands against cold steel,
The ridges pressed into the bones of his palms.
Cold metal sneaked under his shirt
Into the skin of his back as he pushed against the other side.
Encircled by steely ridges, he huddled there,
Stuck tight like an embryo.
Rain torrents poured across the openings, and
Gritty water seeped into his shirt and jeans and shoes.

He could faintly see the shape of his hands,
His dirt-darkened forearms, but nothing else.
Rocks, pebbles, twigs, and unidentified objects pinged through the tunnel,
Leaving bruises where they touched his bare skin.
The wind screeched like a demon,
Trying to suck him through a straw.
He heard crashing metal, cracking wood, and the telling moan
Of the twister.

What could be happening above him, he could not know.
And yet, as the juggernaut advanced, he felt
All would be crushed under its wheels, except earth itself.
All else, his paltry house, his pick-up, the oaks and pecans
Must be scraped clean from the ground to burst like fireworks in the sky.

His eyes dribbled tears, cleared dust and mud collected there.
He blinked, and though the fading light was dim, he knew
He did not want to see, and too,
There was nothing left to look at.

This poem stems from a documentary I watched about tornadoes. A family hid in a culvert as a tornado destroyed their farm. I took away the family and replaced them with a single person because I wanted to evoke the feeling of being alone and afraid.