End Times 3 Poem by DM W

The storm is over.
The howling wind has ceased to
Whirl and the driving
Metal rain has stopped pounding
This spectral landscape;
Punctuated by green smears.
Like sleet, wild birds
Plummet from miasmal skies.
Yet I can still hear
The flowers and trees breathing;
All the rest has been
Transformed into stark silence.
Only this silence
And pitch-black darkness remain.
It has been like this
For days. Silence and darkness
Are cruel and sly guests,
Who've overstayed their welcome.
Nothing can ever
Be redeemed. O now it's that
Fateful hour! The new
Moon will soon become blood red.
O light the old lamps
In this crumbling house of dreams!