the storm

with salivating psyches, the seven start to swarm, anticipating gluttony with, the coming of the storm, the coming of the storm, if gluttony were a virtue, the seven would be saints, for the glory of the valley, they have come to surely taint, who is this shirley taint?, with pail and lasso quick at hand, they stalk and set to pounce, while slobbering in their greed, the savory tension mounts, the savory tension mounts, as the rainbow rises, with color rich and true, they gaze in wide-eyed wonder, at the vibrance of each hue, the vibrance of each hue, leaping forward with the cunning, of fox on simple prey, flinging lassos in the air, but the colors drop away, the colors drop away, sordid lines come snapping backwards, clashing with their hopes, dumbfounded wretched writhing, as they tangle in their ropes, and came a mighty flood, of the colors they desired, for the rainbows and the flowers, of the valley had conspired, revelations often come, when struggling not to sink, that when the meek unite, they aren't helpless a one may think, drowning in the colors they had come to steal, the valiant persecuted served a devastating meal, no one in the valley wept for them.