Ice Storm

A midnight war rages

as it descends

without grace,

pinging with increasing abandon,

I hear it coming,

like the incessant ringing

in my ears,

an invisible barrage

against the walls and windows,

concentrated and cruel,

the ice comes

sharply slipping nearer

through the night,

sleekly coating winter’s landscape,

like a foul primeval shroud:

roads become death traps

as it lies sweetly with wicked intent,

a crushing weight snapping trees

as power lines succumb,

and every poor blade

of last summer’s grass

suffocates.

Thank God for the night,

for in the darkness,

no glorious diamond sparkle confuses

or distracts with the deadly beauty of Lucifer,

so hard to resist;

no, in the dark

the menace has no mask:

the smooth operator,

a slick knife’s edge,

exposed as malicious fury:

only in the darkness

where truth confounds lies,

where treacherous beauty is obscured

and nightmares become dreams,

can the malevolent revenge

of the Fallen One,

be withstood:

When the storm comes,

be silent,

“know that I am,”

and be free.

Turn away.

To defeat him, turn away.

© ACG

01 February 2011