A Storm in The Valley

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From an awakening of a

Glorious shine that arose from

The horizon of the eastern

Dawn, there was once

A croon and melody sound.

From Heaven in which it

Came, to the valley

Where it was pertained,

Though on one day,

Something came,

With a hellish roar.

 

From Hell it was made,

To the valley that gave

It no shame. When it arrived

And made its stay,

After the moon had made

Its fade, over the darkness

Of the endless day,

It lingered to the groundless

East and arrived with no ease.

For that sullen sound was a

Sound of clashing tides

From that of a roaring shore,

It was nothing more, than a

Ravishing Storm.

 

For days it stayed,

As the overwatch that

Prevented any ray to

Come through,

Like such of the holy ray.

For the Puritans,

Once holy creatures of He,

Gave no more treasury

To the One who

Was meant to sent

Them free; though

On one rainy day

Came a Man

That was made to stay.

 

A Man of mystic

Who came from the vast

Realm to love the puritans,

Who they saw, and ran away.

Though the Man was

No body of fear, like a

Roaring and 

Soul eating bear,

He was only there

To make everything fair.

 

To many of them he was a great

And terrifying fate, to others

He was a true revival and a saint;

And throughout these gloomy days,

The Storm roared of crucial pain

And weeping drops of fire,

Like the sounds of their unforgiving prays.

For The Storm still made its stay,

Underneath the holy ray, while

Many of the souls in the valley

Were now under way.

 

And though the Man

Was dealt to stray,

From the unholy Puritans who

They tried to dismay by their lost of faith

And lust for selves,

The Man of He was not there

To shame them, but he was only

There to set them free.

 

The Storm still roared, like a terrifying boar

Above the souls for its Master that

Commenced the evil choir.

For darkness the Storm gave,

Like the perpetual Darkness of night

In which it came, it roared and

Roared at the tainted souls within

The doomed valley.

 

But though the Man was brave

And could sense the cry and unholy

Rain of the roaring Storm, the Man

Felt no sore like the ones before;

And so, the Storm roar once more

As the valley was now to relinquish

And release its new, and forever, peace.

 

For the Storm was no more,

And the Sun was no more to shun.

The Puritans were now in their forevermore,

For they had fathomed once more,

About the Man, who was nothing more,

Than a Rider on the Storm.






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