The clouds are coming.
The heavens above
are choked in a shroud of darkness—
not the gentle veil of night,
not the hush of holy rest,
but a ravenous, smothering gloom,
thick with withheld wrath,
quivering with hunger,
aching to break.
The clouds gather
like the howling hosts of hell,
writhing, swollen,
the very air fevered
with the stench of mankind’s sin.
They press low,
pregnant with judgment,
heavy with the weight of blood.
Their edges burn
with a pale, wasted glow—
not salvation, not mercy,
but the flicker of a dying world,
throbbing, trembling,
ripe for the feast.
