Poetry

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HOTTERDAY

In the maelstrom, the earthquake, the tidal decay
Beats the soul of the last one, called Hotterday.
The reborn of druids and nobles and kings
And the rage and the banshees, unspeakable things.

As he views the horizon
All covered in terror,
His heart beats with fire
The world unaware there;
That the judgement's reserved to the Godless and then
It's back to the homefire, left burning within.

Was it Mongols or Prussians or fierce Keltic strains
That bred ire and God's vengeance in the heart of a man?
Was it time or just passion that boiled to a froth
Indignation and winepress of God's holy wrath?

Look up, for indeed your redemption draws nigh
But look first for the turmoil that descends from on High.
Tribulation was promised
And as promised shall flow;
For whatever man reaps
That he also must sow.

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