By: Kristin Peterson (Spring, 2022)

Hail, Hail, the storm is near, beneath the crooked sky,
Though racked and torn, and turned forlorn, the soldier left a’fright,
Deep beneath the barrow bone, the winds they start to stir

The harrowing of howling horns seize into the marrow,
Perspiration, feverish, collects upon the soldiers brow,
Hail, Hail the storm is near beneath the crooked sky

The thunderous boom, the flash of light, the storms of war upon him,
The grizzly form, of flesh untorn, for power, plight or pleasure,
Deep beneath the barrow bone, the winds they start to stir

A sudden surge, of heated pain, perversely wreaks it’s havoc,
The soldier drops unto his knees, not pious in pretension,
Hail, Hail, the storm is here, beneath the crooked sky

Upon his back, he spies the stars, no clearer night to see,
The storm that rages on and on, compelled by men of war and greed
Deep beneath the barrow bone, the winds they start to stir

And as he heaves his final breath, a single tear streams down his face
The slick veneer, of wounded tears, to sow the seeds of ash to dust,
Hail, Hail, the storm is near, beneath the crooked sky,
Deep beneath the barrow bone, the winds they start to stir