Those who bring the toiling weather paterns that will be the sign of the end times for man. This is the first draft. :)
the weathermen came
there was no thunder
across the plain.
Their coming
rose no wind
or summer rain.
Slept-
and early fell,
made those of
whom the weathermen were left to tell.
Dark clouds drew
the night before
the wetahermen came,
without balmy heat to stir
or frozen chills to mame.
Like walls to block
the bursting damnation-
the ebon giants
gathered in formation
high aloft,
far away
from the human cradle
caressed in clay.
Some say they
couldn't draw their
eyes away
the night before
the weathermen came.
Dashing fingers of light
screeching across
the blackboard night,
as the stars fell
left and right
across the plain.
'Twas end of day
'Twas end of night.
Long have spoken
in the cursed name
yet fell mute with fear
the night before the weathermen came.
Distant thunders
flooding in sprees
brought the sky
down to its knees.
And fear they did
the crowd-
the awakened souls
by the wind aloud.
Digging down
in the belly of the sky
the black pire hooves
of the horsed weathermen nigh,
sent the cracking ground
and the earth's foaming core
bleaching without a sound
to a clean lifeless floor.
And so none left
to tell
the weathermen left
for hell
where they would meet those souls once more.
Poetry by Aven Black
Read 564 times
Written on 2009-07-17 at 19:42
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The Weathermen
The night beforethe weathermen came
there was no thunder
across the plain.
Their coming
rose no wind
or summer rain.
Slept-
and early fell,
made those of
whom the weathermen were left to tell.
Dark clouds drew
the night before
the wetahermen came,
without balmy heat to stir
or frozen chills to mame.
Like walls to block
the bursting damnation-
the ebon giants
gathered in formation
high aloft,
far away
from the human cradle
caressed in clay.
Some say they
couldn't draw their
eyes away
the night before
the weathermen came.
Dashing fingers of light
screeching across
the blackboard night,
as the stars fell
left and right
across the plain.
'Twas end of day
'Twas end of night.
Long have spoken
in the cursed name
yet fell mute with fear
the night before the weathermen came.
Distant thunders
flooding in sprees
brought the sky
down to its knees.
And fear they did
the crowd-
the awakened souls
by the wind aloud.
Digging down
in the belly of the sky
the black pire hooves
of the horsed weathermen nigh,
sent the cracking ground
and the earth's foaming core
bleaching without a sound
to a clean lifeless floor.
And so none left
to tell
the weathermen left
for hell
where they would meet those souls once more.
Poetry by Aven Black
Read 564 times
Written on 2009-07-17 at 19:42
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
