A bitter night-
Gloomier than most…
the sky is covered in mist,
Clouds loom above as
The Moon hangs from a silver twine in the sky.

Can you feel the trees moving?
They are whispering, They are speaking.
Not audibly; but just to themselves.
Hissing voices from Their branches,
Traveling from one to another.

The blades of grass quiver below,
With the words chilling their green stalks.
So miniscule; a mob mentality.
Such an ominous night;
The heavens above even stand in suspense.

But the voices of the past,
Begin to mingle with life itself.
Using slender tongues meant to kill
And shroud the elements,
Replacing them with tools of despair.

All strung together at once,
Each feeling of helpless raining down,
Like iron spikes on silver spheres,
Stars of destruction from the above.
Heed the Mourning Stars.

Heed the Morningstar.