The skies whispers grow restlessly apprehensive
Gone are glimpses of gold, grounded in grey
Opaque cloth for captured dead swirling copper leaves
Buttoning the hapless folk. Lean hard into the west.
The growl of the winds so sure of portends
Beckoning the howls crying fast for the rains
Darkly Oceanic firmament carries its impeding wilderness
Whistling up skies, casting sadness on morning
Still land holds dry despite this ill suspense,
Shall blinded night tangle masked in effusions,
Will sombre silence be strangled to shrieking?
The horrified humanity is cowering coldly beneath
Tempestuously flailing charred statues of earth.