The trumpets of the mad tempest,
the turbulent voices of the unrest,
 
music of iron and blood and sweat,
running through portals of sound to beget,
 
twisting its way out of azure prisons,
out into the dark and darker schisms,
 
the order of the devil’s counsel in the skies
as the hell and the spirits conspire to rise,
 
the hot and hotter reach up into the air
with seven horns blazing with redden flare,
 
nervous clouds swirling to and fro,
bending with the heat as passions grow,
 
running out of time as the blood swells,
as the history of the familiar sky foretells,
 
the coming of the tempest dressed in black,
the piling up of clouds in a twisted stack,
 
trumpet clouds sounding battle cries
as the wind and sky plot to mobilize,
 
and turn the sky angels into devil’s advocates
that fly into the heat of the infernal sunsets
and never rest until their work is done.

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