The feeble breeze of a winter forest
Piercing the fabric of darkness and death
Feared by man- the Night of eternal rest
The air is itself a final breath.

A weary woodland of spirits soar
Beneath sauntered limbs of low rapport.
Rapping at the dead blue moon
The black void, a lifeless cocoon.

(Beneath the dirt long forgot,
Their bones festooned.)

In its damp soil sowed the dead
Decayed by a pessimist fate
And atop, blood of fresh flesh covered red
The pale winter pyre of a cold cynic’s hate.

A forest of somber spirits
Wed by death, succumb to a stately shadow.
Unknown to the glee of sheer mortal man
Left by Death in a nameless land.