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Lightning strikes, 
the sky ablaze 
in daylight through darknight 
as if God himself 
was taking one last snapshot 
before drowning us in rain, 
His can of Raid 
His lawn once proudly green, 
Japanese gardens, kind fountains 
like the once sweetly chatting brooks 
that kept us company, 
now patches of ugly brown 
dead earth, sky scraping weeds 
trying in vain to be the tallest mockery 
His plan is clean cut 
and labelled well for the days ahead, 
puryfing through fire and smoke 
and landscaping the tiny anthills 
into oblivion, before washing us all away 
and polishing his floors once again 
for those fit to walk on it 
after removing their shoes

I wonder what Noah would do