Sonnet #45

A storm is brewing on the edge of thought,

past the red horizon winds, are come

a confluence of breezes poise to set

the world ablaze and seas to churning.

He returns to distant shores and there,

he sees his brothers fire raze the fields,

their whistling thunder crack the summer skies,

their swords brought down on mothers children,

Fists and voices raised in raucous joy,

They sing the hymns of righteous death and glory.

Though he knows his home will never burn,

he is forever doomd there to return.