Inclemency

The second derivative of aggression
tied its shoes together
knowing trips must fall

Struck faces grace races
with victory scars
on the quarter-mile tar

We tore minute
from mile and planet
from smile to call the sun our god

That's an ominous onomatopoeia:
yellow burbles demand crows
and get that raven's us, that vaguer cuss

Take power and ground and the
mortar's pestle particularizes 
any together's mess

So the spice rains as a device
to power attention's viewers --
skewerers trained only to watch