Maroons the dead have their season where the leaves rip past on the wind like Shuriken their souls ready to crack the body’s cocoon of death and siphon off to a silver cloud I feel their taut bone rigor crackle beneath the cool Autumn grass as the last maroons await the reapers scythe in the harvest of their souls there is the yawn of death new and old on the layering twilight mists draping the restless lair of the dead I feel its clutching at my pedigrees wading knee deep in the gloaming
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 21:14:31 +0000
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