Eternal, His Tent,
Eternal, His Hell,
Pain Like Travail
By Arley Steinhour 110112
Pain, like Travail, fills the air,
Everyone, now is pulling hair,
Sixty Million, Problems share,
Total wreckage, everywhere.
Sandy, Sand, on street and walk,
No one has much time to talk,
Winter soon will freeze the ears,
Recovery could take many years.
The countryside, that is little more,
Nine hundred miles, of Atlantic shore,
A Third of country, feels some affect,
From lots of rain, to Cities wrecked.
Homes and buildings, stacked up high,
Now piles of trash, up to the sky,
Many years will need pass by,
For memories, to not make us cry.
Years, it seems, also, to rebuild,
Or clean the trash, and land back-filled,
Many people will just walk away,
Much farther inland, for their kids to play.
The older folk, simply won't try,
To fix their lives, would rather die,
The storm took most of their memories,
With moisture mold, and in windblown trees.
Many people will turn back to God,
Some will curse Him for the Iron Rod,
He's warned us through His Prophecy,
We bear His wrath, when we Hell-bent be.
With all the happenings in these days,
Like Travail, Signs rein in divers ways,
More and more, with each one stronger,
If we don't Repent, Time won't be much longer.
He knew this ending from the start,
In His words we find His broken heart,
Pleading, pleading constantly,
'Come back, Come back, Come back, to ME.'