The air is thick and heavy, an odd mood fills the night, death like stillness pervades all nature. And yet there is life in the darkness, a different thing one must admit but it is here, and it sees. Like a history book left open, one reads the lingering mist drifting towards the shadows, but why, calls it there, what is it that waits in the darkness, in the shadows?
Like the ominous calm which precedes the storm, there is silence. It is alive, it breaths, calls to me and I refuse its invitation. I have nothing to offer the darkness, I have already given all and yet the clock still ticks, the clock still calls.
A faint peal of thunder now comes from far off. Like a signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin and it appears to awaken the dead from their lethargy. Awaken from your slumber it is time to walk in the darkness, in the soulless hour, in the meadow of lingering death. Yes, come, come to the shadows of waiting willows, the hangman's tree, the lover embrace and the stillborn soul waiting to be carried back into the fold.
Suddenly a storm races in the night producing more destruction in the few minutes it lasted, than would a century of ordinary spectacles. But it isn't ordinary is it, never was and be damned to those who'd make it so.
