The Prince of the Power of the Air, or Sonnet 81

The Prince of the Power of the Air Sonnet 81 Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day? Thou art more chilling of heart and of depth Thy deceiving fog doth hide my path’s way And thy winter’s frost hath too long a breath. Most times the clouded atmosphere Chokes out the golden Son’s rays. But thy presence drowns out this much more near, Not by luck, but orchestrated in a temporal faze. By Revelation, someday thy end shall come And lost is thy harsh grip by snare The second death will see thee undone Now, though, this world is thy lair So I am left counting earth’s days And praying for our true Hope’s gaze.