The Rainstorm and a Devil's Prize

Hastening t'ward the grayscale skies, On gilded wings an angel flies. While demons wail of their despise; Hiss and moan, their sole reprise. A lightning flash; the angel sighs A rush of wind, and then she dies. Oh, how the heavens agonize And thunderously vocalize. While in the mayhem devils rise With beating drums to signalize Their ill intent to terrorize The broken hearts and reddened eyes Whose cherub tears the Earth baptize. But demon laughter amplifies The vengeful thirst across the skies And solemn, anguished seraph cries The host of heaven unifies. With swords aloft they mobilize Their concourse as a vast sunrise Whose flaming swords the clouds incise And radiant light Earth pacifies. Yet mankind fails to realize Except the prudent and the wise The storm is naught but a disguise, Oh do you hear the old Magi’s Verse for men which edifies? Or listen to him rhapsodize How from the light, the darkness flies And from the rain, the sunlight dries? Perhaps…he oversimplifies.