The Field
Fog, thick as if it were a cobra’s spray, loomed above the barren, frozen path.
The starved oaks, tormented by the midnight wind, performed a macabre waltz beneath a mirthless sky.
Their branches, stained dark crimson, thrashed and wept, singing a noose’s curse. Aside from the whining, cold shards, now falling moderately from the heavens, silence pressed heavily upon the forsaken forest.
Two friars stood beside a snow-covered mound, from which a rancid stench emanated. Their cloaked scout slowly ascended the mound in order to get a clearer view, each of her steps met with a sickening crunch.
The youngest friar shook uncontrollably, but whether it was from fear or frost was unclear. Nevertheless, he was vigorously praying the rosary, often stuttering in the process. His fellow brother, a man bearing a resemblance to his frosty, emaciated surroundings, stood firm and motionless, save for the flame of his twisted torch. Three mortal lives sensed the palpable absence of life, a bitter contrast to daylight chaos. Reality seemed an illusion as the torch cast demons upon the earth. Yet each putrid breath of air served as a despairing reminder of Hell’s wrath, and the rotting flesh beneath the snow.
Fog thick as if a cobra’s spray
Tantalizing specters way
For if a life shall choose to tread
Will find the willows stained dark red
Branches sing a nooses curse
That ‘neath a sky long lost its mirth
A lamentation fails to show
The rotting flesh beneath the snow
The starved oaks, tormented by the midnight wind, performed a macabre waltz beneath a mirthless sky.
Their branches, stained dark crimson, thrashed and wept, singing a noose’s curse. Aside from the whining, cold shards, now falling moderately from the heavens, silence pressed heavily upon the forsaken forest.
Two friars stood beside a snow-covered mound, from which a rancid stench emanated. Their cloaked scout slowly ascended the mound in order to get a clearer view, each of her steps met with a sickening crunch.
The youngest friar shook uncontrollably, but whether it was from fear or frost was unclear. Nevertheless, he was vigorously praying the rosary, often stuttering in the process. His fellow brother, a man bearing a resemblance to his frosty, emaciated surroundings, stood firm and motionless, save for the flame of his twisted torch. Three mortal lives sensed the palpable absence of life, a bitter contrast to daylight chaos. Reality seemed an illusion as the torch cast demons upon the earth. Yet each putrid breath of air served as a despairing reminder of Hell’s wrath, and the rotting flesh beneath the snow.
Fog thick as if a cobra’s spray
Tantalizing specters way
For if a life shall choose to tread
Will find the willows stained dark red
Branches sing a nooses curse
That ‘neath a sky long lost its mirth
A lamentation fails to show
The rotting flesh beneath the snow