She comes in slowly, just a little rain.

She slides on in lowly, what a dirty shame.

It’s the little things that count, in the scheme of things.

It’s the little things that get you, when the bell rings.

Just a little water, it comes drop by drop.

Just a little water, and soon a flood you’ve got.

We sit by like children, watching beyond our reach.

Then, too late, we flee like lemmings, into the breach.

Or, we huddle in our shelter, while the rage is on.

We are helpless in our plight, while time marches on.

And all the little creatures with their shelter gone.

Crawl up to bite us, now that food is gone.

For some it is too late, they could not swim.

As their space filled up, overflowing the brim.

Now they are among the lost, overcome from within.

To be found in the end, never to be again.

When all is said and done, and the cleansing begins,

We stand by weary and our sense of catastrophe sets in.



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