The spirits of the dead.
They're fleeced as naked sheep.
They hang cold and desperate.
Howling over desolate isolated moorland.
Screaming on the gale.
The linger just a moment, where man nor beast exist.
This ethereal racket, caused by the sharp and biting gorse bush.
It's scratching wounds, deep into grey shadows,
Left overs of spoiled souls.
(C) Livvi
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
The spirits of the dead.
They're fleeced as naked sheep.
They hang cold and desperate.
Howling over desolate isolated moorland.
Screaming on the gale.
The linger just a moment, where man nor beast exist.
This ethereal racket, caused by the sharp and biting gorse bush.
It's scratching wounds, deep into grey shadows,
Left overs of spoiled souls.
(C) Livvi
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