Sandstorms of crisis

It was portence hot winds, the sirocco and blew  
stinging your face  
the dust, the clouds, and reason questioned
blanket laden, the grains that bite at sentiment
the swirl, was this the prophecy
oriental ocult fermentation
the causeway between life and death so narrow
and quicksands threatened the unwary
strong trust we placed in that oasis of faith
it's always, like the font, comfort with words to refresh
the plauge it came like a typhoon's screw
swept up, cast it's net  
bore away, stampeding galloping, like the dust cloud's hooves
to choke and to prostrate
and where was God when that big bad wolf  
came to my front door ?  
 
Did he bring a box full of PPE
 NO; just say a prayer  
that good will come out of tragedy  
 or halt the devil's  grief's conveyor