Deathly dormancy


Ruins towering far ahead
allure the wanderer with it's grace.
Fog's enfolding the graves' devotements
that form the fortress of life.
Every windrow hauls a dead's moaning
making him shiver like the trees in the wind.
The sky gleams warm in slightly yellow
as the hills are gulping the sun.
The shadows crwaling, hiding
waiting to put their spell upon.
Branches claw-like
lurking to pick the last bit of life.
The air to breath thin and cold
makes blood clot and senses dwindle.
The anchoret is nearing
to cleanse the soil of blood and vomit
and to bury what once hab been crouse and happy.