by Nick Gisburne
Ferocious bolts of lightning strike the shed
Where tiny children cower, sick with fear
The older, weaker, wiser ones have fled
Without a care for those in danger here
The gifted girl is quick to make a stand
And steps beneath the remnants of the roof
With sparks of silver flowing from each hand
She vilifies the gods, aloft, aloof
Bewildered that her witchery may work
She strikes the great Almighty with her spell
But with a yawn of boredom, and a smirk
He throws them to the Pit, where demons dwell
The weather offers little chance of rain
In Hell the only forecast is for pain
