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The Whirlwind
Hewn in verse and ancient lore,
It descends through an open door
To place its fingers on mortal souls,
On meager pleas on lifeless shoals.
Far below where creatures dwell,
Its surging scorn is born as rising embers swell.
Small shadows merge where thoughts collect,
And pierce the fog of day,
Murmured sounds rise to settle on unsympathetic play.
Cast aside each whimper lost within a chastening howl;
Hidden in burrows, mortals scurry
And feel the weight of worry.
Dark whispers mingle ravenous desires from misty lofts
In chambers forlorn,
From anvil thrones their cries adorn the morn.
From a heavenly palace, they scatter stones of malice;
Sparks of thunder pierce the night,
Then fade from sight.
Their cold embrace excites our race;
Unleashed hordes reap our toil
And plunder our grace.
Jonathan M. Bellmann
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