Disaster

I met with Disaster along the way;
She looked about a thousand years of age,
And tall as mountain ash but blind and mute,
And nude, aside from diamond knee-high boots.

I must have met her many times in guise,
Perhaps with grief that hurts, with grim surprise,
I felt her in the scent of homeless cries, 
Or faint sadistic laughter of a brute.

I shook her hand despite the nameless rage
That wrapped my body fully like a suit
Of sweat and shakes shooting from wilted roots, 
That feast on acid deep inside my eyes.

Don't you demand from me consoling lies 
To help you sleep soundly beneath the skies
That birthed Disaster long ago one day,
And doomed us both to meet unknown, en route....