With a dark promise,
behind clouds of pewter
and wisps of the trails of spirits,
the moon rises and sets it eye
upon the fields
and furrows below;
The trees, almost barren
of the leaves of Summer
twist and writhe
in the cold , bleak wind
and call out “Farewell”
to the weary traveler
who passes them by;
the ground is littered with fallen
shards of color,
covering all that can be seen
with bleeding, shining, glory
and the moon shines on still
with it’s gaze fixed
to raise the spectres
of the fallen ones
who wait and watch
for their escape…
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