Not scarlet lust of loins, love’s rosy glows,
Or red mist of berserker rage descending.
It’s mood lighting for when the last trump blows,
Your final warning that the world is ending
And this is not a drill. Out of the waves
Come Jörmungandr and Leviathan,
The unquiet dead are rising from their graves,
Fenrir the Wolf has swallowed up the sun
And left us skies of sanguine cellophane.
The dragon’s loose, the horsemen are abroad,
But it’s the crimson light that makes it plain
The omens can no longer be ignored.
Heaven’s gate is issuing its final call
And may the gods have mercy on us all.