It's Quiet Before The Storm Poem by Paul Amrod

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.