.
In the fall of light,
Trees turn to stone.
This time the sun removes,
Told in tales of the rise of moon.
Light winds rustle rusted leaves—
And a fur will soon be feathered in a bed.
And silence screeches as some flying bark embarks
And the very trees are hollowed in their grieves of the newly
Throrned, red, running rose— of the dearly claimed, arisen dead.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
.
In the fall of light,
Trees turn to stone.
This time the sun removes,
Told in tales of the rise of moon.
Light winds rustle rusted leaves—
And a fur will soon be feathered in a bed.
And silence screeches as some flying bark embarks
And the very trees are hollowed in their grieves of the newly
Throrned, red, running rose— of the dearly claimed, arisen dead.
