Old English Poem

The world is dark, the sky is torn, A storm of shadows, hearts forlorn. The winds, they howl, the earth does moan, For something stirs, its voice unknown. The centuries pass, the ages fade, Yet in the quiet, hearts are laid— A seed of doubt, a spark of fear, A whisper soft, too sharp to hear. And now it comes, the waking cry, The thunder’s call, the tear in sky. The heavens split, the gates unbar, The second coming, near and far. What shape it takes, we cannot know, A figure bright or shadowed low. A beast, a king, a voice divine, The world awaits, an end to time. The streets are empty, whispers loud, The skies are dark, the thunder proud. The stars collide, their light runs thin, And something stirs, beneath our skin. We’ve built our cities, strong and grand, We’ve crowned ourselves, we’ve made our stand. But now the ground begins to shake, And all we’ve built begins to break. The heavens crack, the air turns cold, The story written, yet untold. The prophets...