Beautiful Tornadoes (Original poetry)

The quiet rumble starts most mornings,
always around the same time.
Every morning I think to my partner,
these beautiful tornadoes have to be yours and not mine.

As if sensing our mental discussion,
the tornadoes gather pace,
Running around each other in circles
before bounding out of their room in a death defying race.

Spinning out the bedroom,
bouncing down the walls of the corridor
grabbing onto each other,
as their heads bounce gently on the recently cleaned floor.

As the beautiful tornadoes strike the front room,
lifting toys and shifting furniture as they progress,
it's upon hearing something crash into pieces,
the decision is made that there will be no more rest.

The beautiful tornadoes imbued with an energy
they are simply programmed to dispel
terrorise the once sleeping cat,
I bet Faust wishes he had a hard wearing shell.

They fly around the front room,
ignoring gravity as they play.
The beautiful tornadoes aren't acquainted with fear,
this is simply not their way.

As 'owners' of such creations,
we learn to bite tongues and sit on our hands.
For it's the Beautiful Tornadoes,
that bend our will so it fits with their plans!