Ghast Give Your Wrists
In droves, they flock to the shadows of the canopy.
Just as one stops, another begins to cry.
The mist, like fog, so dense. Occult.
Man is forbidden here, for to disturb the vapours
Would poison the mind.
So all that abide are dead still,
These last few days.
As the shadows this evening
Lenghten and pinpoint the last of the light...
And the sound of the knives
Counterpoints the sobbing and moaning,
The blood looks so dark.