Inner Tempesta

The clouds gather in councils of conceit,

The far-flung wail of northern winds resounds,

The haunting earth-drums lessen their beat

As soundless wings of darkness draw their bounds.

Glaring echoes awake the silent sight,

The harmony of tense despair is lost.

Gloom’s solace struggles with the screaming light,

The scent of death in streams of garish frost.

The frozen veins harass the stormy glass,

A vision of glory of the ancient times,

Alive to haunt the world that came to pass

With weapons of fear and its ghastly mimes.

Apocalyptic psalms ascend in choirs,

Like echoes bequeath the grace of dark aisles;

The endless chapel burns in mystic fires,

I do believe my storm will last awhile.