Azubuike Justin

Black clouds descend the threshold of peace,
men hastened to sleep by irons of blood
as seraphic sheeps slaughtered
in a cascade of crimson-like drips.

Black clouds descend the threshold of peace,
soulless souls on the prowl
shrieking with cruel delight
amid feasts on maiden-heads.

Black clouds descend the threshold of peace,
black clouds everywhere,
the garlands of peace trodden by beastly souls,
leaving us two nights in one day.