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Tornado

My year is a tornado.
Spring is just a breeze as a new year begins. The breeze is cool and life is sweet. Tender.
Summer is the warning sign. Winds are harsh. I see the approaching storm. Fatal. 
Autumn is the eye. It wrenches my life away, sucking love, hope and ambition into its bubbling gut. 
And winter. Winter is the aftermath. My world is ash. And I, I am the broken debris.

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