Thor and His Minions

Red dawn,
Like ions burning in a cauldron of Hades,
Plastered against the climbing cumulus,
Their bottoms lined up like an army of night,
With camoflauge of cyan and and white,
Pitted against the coming day.
Gathered as ghosts of ancient Greece,
Arrayed like infranty on battlefields of fleece,
A lone abode, stolid at their feet,
Ten thousand to 1, the odds on this day.
The house all quiet, ready the fray,
All are sleeping unaware of the play
Unaware of impending war.
Clashing and clanking of ghostly spears,
None but those with souls can feel the tears,
The ranks upon ranks of these hairy trolls of hell.
Look toward the blackened and baleful third world,
See towared the snarling whorl,
With muted whispers and excited shouts,
Invisible battle arrays about.
A land of the sky,
Where angels and demons, And fairytales fly,
Fantasy, and children and kittens play,
Peter and his pirates,
Daniel and his den,
Thor and his minions for an hour a day