Life

Life

A tempest forms in autumn’s hands.
Heavens weep a midnight lament,
Ethereal droplets dribble and land,
Amid emerald seas of velvet bent.

Sempiternal gusts whispered above,
Fulfill barbate Boreas bidding
Flitting! Fluttering! Striving to shove
Puissant trees that are forbidding.

Oh! Winds with zealous feet
Stamping, tramping: shh-whoosh bang!
Frore, remorseless, callous hands meet
Cybele’s deific skirts in inestimable clangs.

Empyreal roars are bellowed
Engulfing what lies beneath their cradle,
These crashes are not mellowed
They are mightier when raddled.

Leaden, ireful, frowning clouds
Puffed and heavy, filled with water,
Imprisoning Selene’s snowy rays in shrouds.
Ah! Darkened the hours sans her saunter.

Hope still dwells amongst the living
Bantam and unbeknownst to most,
Like a newborn it thrives every passing minute,
Awaiting calmly for its time is close.

Faraway Apollo’s chariot is seen.
Behind him the sun’s fiery fingers stroking heaven.
Nyx’s hand is swept away careen,
The sun beams brightly, a quarter past seven.

Tempered clouds are no longer.
Skies are now composed of cotton clods.
Boreas withdraws winds that were stronger,
Dispatching soft breezes to soar atop sods.

Thunderclaps aloft are silent;
Selene is in deep slumber.
Welkin’s tears are not as violent;
Leastwise the bygone storm has been lumbered.

Morn arrives, promises bearing
Be it love and joy and peace renewed;
Day-to-day after a night’s furor is wearing.
Life, exceedingly more joyous than crude.