The Storm

Flaming webs across the sky,
Moving 'ore a field of bloom,
Drawing nearer, ever nigh
Messengers of coming doom.

All the air is still with fear,
Not a breath of wind doth blow.
Yet the vapors still come near,
Black'ning earth with their dark flow.

Night has settled on the land.
Tremors fill all men with dread.
For the doom is now at hand,
Fully roused from its dark bed.