This Greyling Sallow Place
Gloomy dismal, and forlorn...
that's how this day was borne
in a Greyling sallow place
where death doth reign
without a face.
In a boneyard of decaying flesh,
one fresh abyss was dug
to the depth of six feet
before the night was still.
With shovel in his hand,
the digger gave a shrug
and left the land of the dead.
The cathedral stood tall
but grimly foreboding
on the edge of a haunted wood.
Built on hallowed ground,
where the ancient ones
lie decaying in their graves.
Knaves and preachers,
the righteous and the sinners,
followers and teachers...
all buried side by side
covered now with hoar frost.
Lives, once lost
never see the light of another morn.
They are mourned and tossed
into a hole like rubbish and trash,
or as ashes interred in an urn
after a burn. It's all the same
to the reaper.
Harsh winds have taken aim
at maudlin tree limbs
that seem to hang their heads
after watching their leaves
flayed by Autumn's sinister breeze.
Seasonal zephyrs have no pity.
They always have their way
with the rape of deciduous trees.
Winter's chill thrives in a world so still.
It's created a haunting silence,
one nearly serene in this scene.
There's no place to rest
in between life and death
in such a stygian world.
No escape from somber despair.
There's only an ominous pall
if anything is to be found there at all...
it will surely be expounded
in the quiet space of such a dreary place.
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