We are Terran's children,
destined for her consumption,
cursed to her cycle of death,
just denizens lost in bereavement.

The clouds--dark and rolling,
encompass our soul's horizons,
obscuring the light, the hope,
in a shroud of solemn drear.

They moan in thunderous trumpet,
dirges for our inevitable requiems
we listen preparing for our reckonings,
a debt signed in the blood of our birth.

You stand there--a juxtaposition,
exposed without inhibitions,
blooming in a field of reaping,
the Crann Bethadh of lore.

I find your branch in trepidation,
a crow once cursed to just darkness,
in yours eyes I find the validation
to transcend the fate of earth and stone.  


Joey Jones