Every time the trumpet sounds,
the tumult in the clouds,
has left me here
upon the ground
deaf in tattered shrouds.
I wake below a jaundiced sky,
where murderous crows rejoice,
watch them flap their hoary wings
and bray immortal voice.
Slinking through the shadows, I,
slip below the ground,
as if in each darkling plain
an ancient gate is found.
To ward off light and feathers bright,
I must hide away,
and walk until the last Hurrah!
Of the human’s judgement day.
Descending Angels show their place,
with blank and interstellar face,
they bring their trumpets to the Earth,
then I shall feast on all that light
as I place them in my hearth!