𝐹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝑜𝒷𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎  
𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁'𝓈 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝓎
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓆𝓊𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈
𝒷𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝒾𝓁
𝒾𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽'𝓈 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒻𝓉
𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑔𝓊𝑒      
𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓊𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈
𝒸𝒶𝓅𝓉𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈  
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒
𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁'𝓈 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓃𝓎

Subzero  
   frozen whispers
 hanging heavy
   like stalactites
 trembling syllables
of Ouija

Gone are the wineskins, froth of youth and forgotten
souls, now ghosts fermenting in death, “For the
Goodtimes.”As a chill wind blows with a prayer for the
dead beneath the ground, sowing seeds for the bones.
With a good still farthing, haunting the monger, “For
the Goodtimes.”

ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴡɪʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʟᴅꜱ, ᴜɴꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʜᴏɢᴀɴʏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ  
ᴘᴜʟꜱɪɴɢ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱ, ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ
ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅꜱ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴀɢʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏꜱꜱ. ᴀ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀ
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀᴡᴀɪᴛꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ
ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ. ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴇʀ
ᴀꜱ ᴛᴡɪʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʟᴅꜱ.

In twilight’s hush, where shadows pray,
For sweet Elinore, lost to day,
The weeping willows bend and sigh,
As silver stars blink in the sky.

The whispering wind calls out her name,
A fleeting touch, a ghostly flame.
Oh, where has dawn’s bright darling fled?
To silent halls, where none have tread?

The roses weep in crimson dew,
Their petals soft—their sorrows true.
The brook, once laughing, hushes near,
As if it waits for her to appear.

Yet still the nightbird sings her song,
A mournful tune, both deep and long.
“Return, return,” the echoes plead,
But twilight holds her—lost, indeed.

So shadows kneel, and prayers rise,
To guide her soul through star-strewn skies.
Oh, sweet Elinore, sleep so bright,
Cradled in the arms of night.