Bad Moon Arising?

Insomnium

Here's another recycled poem, this one from about the mid-eighties:

Winter Moon

When the moon rose full from the hills,
It raised trees of the night:
Black trees,
Shadow trees,
Trees of burnt bone.
I thought of holocausts
And hands raised in supplication
Before the altar of an unknown god.
I thought of dead ones risen from the dust,
Multitudes waiting for sinews, and skin.
I saw each hold his lonely place.
I saw it was the world’s untimely end.

What this poem tells us is that the world's end will arrive this winter with the rising of the moon no matter who loses the presidential election.