The Storm (E) Poem by martin.j. schofield

Where to this rises?
This sound of anger purged with Malice,
From the heavens mighty vault, I surmise;
Or bowls I decree.


No! No! Have mercy,
Lords of the spiralling staircase,
Why too must we suffer;
Indignation and hardship.


I beseech you,
Qualm your frown,
And lay down your arm,
We can not, indeed have not;
Harmed thee,
We mere mortals.


But the storm gains power,
As we cower,
Before your blastedness,
Redeem many, lest I speak;
Out of turn.


Run, run, my children,
From the swirling masses,
The howling tears,
Opening thine skies;
Ultimately showering our humbleness.


What then afore we perish?
'Tis gone! '
All with it,
The calm brings peace,
And the peace?
Brings Joy!