Upon a frigid autumn morn,
As Apollo’s charge shines hazily through a heavenly shroud,
Ancient spires through fog are born.
Whilst a bitter breath beats down from hills above,
Shorn foliage coats the land,
And shadows of days to come wait just below.
Lines flow from a fool’s hand,
While the visage of a goddess in a shadowy shell
Lies just beyond the veil.
Haunted days of hallowed origin loom upon the horizon,
Soon spectral visitors may come hail;
The fall of night shall cull them from darkest depths.
Within a great northern port,
A cosmic wizard weaves a grand web of enchantment,
Entrancing all from his dark court.
Now the frigid morning winds further towards icy darkness,
As mad ramblings do depart
For distant eyes and minds to forever feast upon.