Black skies have veiled the crescent moon

mocking from atop her golden throne

as if playing the wisest but saddest tune

ghastly, bloody grin in a shapeless form.

Pointing with those twisted, bony fingers

at the small and sorrowful lives of men

burning dreams and kisses to ash and tinder

spread by winds across a snowy glen.

Cold gales on a cold and bloodless night.

Glass of whiskey whispers soothing words.

Falling darkness black is all in sight.

Love is but the dream that faded first.

What is there in life to touch and behold

when all the hopes and joy have fled

and you are falling in abyss, nothing to hold

drowning in a sleep of endless, ancient dread?

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