A Storm Abrew
The wind is moisture rich and cold,
In whispered portent speaking,
Bitterness and wrath untold,
With heaven’s ire reeking.
The firmament is cast in gloom,
With distant thunder rolling,
Heralding impending doom,
A sense of sickness doling.
Flecks of rain, like spittle, fly,
In racing deftness darting,
Utterances from the sky,
Such moodiness imparting.
I can smell the wind of fear,
Encroaching from the east,
Bringing tumult so austere,
The covenant deceased…
Drown the first born babes in wrath!
Set locusts on the scene!
A cataclysmic aftermath!
The lightning striking keen!
Aye, there is a storm abrew,
I sense it on the breeze,
Winds of fate in blackened hue,
Discomforting the trees…
🍃
adamdaniel 