Member Poem

There was affray in the enceinte, darkened skies. Eastern mist, western dew rode tracks of war. There was fracas in the spry clouds, twilight Moon rushed to hills, nightly stars, hurried, fled from war. Then was piercing azure bolts, then was humming thunders. Blood ran astream from lesions of high, blood was water. Thence was he, the unknowing that tread whilst the lords of high were vexed, gentle stepping as if exempt from rage of skies. Like axed log, he soon tumbled to soil in showers of falling waters. His now sooted tongue bore yield of smoke; telling of the wrath of clouds, singing in many tongues of dead.