It's Quiet Before The Storm

In the blue light of dawn very early Wilting are the roses on dismal days lately Every sandglass will then slip away wildly It's quiet before the storm quite purely. The angelic trumpets blow an elegant theme Pageant's banners fly like out of a dream The rumble of canons echo resounding the hills which crumble like stones to pebbles. To the deepest bass from the highest treble Then it calms the clamor to a witch's scream. Still in the doomsdays' atmospheric hurry they plunder our resources without goodwill. With deceptive charlatanic forms of worry these supposed protectors propose their scheme. Presenting reflective satanic damnations of our dissent from our proverbial rebel. We exalt the eagle enthroned with love although its warning to each earthling came abrupt. The children play a blind man's bluff initiating a rumble with a license to kill. The forests of haunting voices will soon erupt with an eerie screech of an utmost indignation. Witness the ugly curses gripping the helpless as the pretenders come forth crippled and corrupt. In a freeze paralyzed stunned and mystified we somehow free ourselves from the devil. Lost and bewildered are the wise dumbfounded, pensive and nostalgic for the days they did revel. In the purple light of dusk we wonder Melting away in an abysmal flurry Every clock will stop before the thunder It's the quiet that comes so obscurely. Peering into autumn with a cawing crow, hounded by the prognosis as we suffer to keep warm. Humbly waiting in the quiet before the storm Reading through revelations so thoroughly petrified fighting off the power of fear and trepidation. Some saving grace was to be bought and sold like the sacred prayers and psalms of the days of old which were preached solemnly from the voice of David. As if we could somehow cure the world and save it while the cedars of Lebanon were liquefied.