Tables turned in quick succession
Crashing weight upon glass floors
Splintering everything in their way
The heavens opened gates of anger
Pointing fingers with a fiery strike
Casting all illusion from dust back to dust
Clinking glass on stone, devil’s music
Neither love nor hate could quench heaven’s ire
For as the Masters said it was too late
And we watch agape
PoP © 14 March 07
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