It slinks across the emerald turf early in the morning,
Silently, fluidly.
Barely visible like a gust of wind.
The sky grows dark,
and fills the infinite horizon with dread.
As tears fall from the heavens,
They hit the hard surfaces of the cold, bitter stones.
They are deathly pale and as bloodless as a coma patient.
The stones crumble underneath the weight of a woman.
Fog rolls in,
Surrounding it's oblivious victim.
Empty eyes look around feeling the sense of the approaching omen.
Suffocating in the smoke,
She draws one final breath.
And in the exhale,
A stream of gray slithers out of her soulless body.