War of the Currents
Currents of the Arctic Warlords in command,
ill at ease in the pacific sky,
making preparations to go to war,
assembling their phantom troops
to mount up on their prancing steeds
and gallop along the air with fire
shooting from their diabolic hooves
armed with flint knives, and javelins,
and crossbows, and sabers, and flintlocks,
and cannons, and howitzers, and missiles,
from the days of Primal Earth into the now,
assemble in the lower skies as they did
a billion years ago,
laughing at the easy drifting of the
warm summer wind that frolics in the sky
and kisses the morning sun.
With their javelins and howitzers affixed,
they charge with their bayonets outstretched,
the fire in their eager eyes burning,
the blood boiling in their furnaces,
their warlike cries coming from their guts,
colossal tentacles sprouting from their armpits
wrapping around the fragile summer currents,
twisting them until they scream,
planting their flag in the clouded flesh,
blending into them until they become one,
one bad coming out of the good and bad,
one devil in command of the all,
one gentle summer breeze that became a wind,
then a rain, then a storm, then a gale,
then built a vortex for an updraft
and became a tornado,
and laughed at the swirling and the
demolition upon the ground
and watched it devour everything in its path.
Another victory over the gentle breeze it was.
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