"The air had a rare quality to it.
A crisp summer day, impregnated with memory...
The wind races, whispering through the trees;
Hushed secrets fall onto deaf ears: Screaming in hopes of a better pastime.
(What has become)
Some say, it is "the moment you feel alive."
Instead, maybe you recognize your demise?
Each breath renders you helpless;
Dying is inevitable.
The wind bears the weight of the world; it has settled upon your shoulders.
The scent of fear minces frazzled nerves, as you witness the gray effect...
(An unwelcome blanket, woven to smother)
Caught within its clutches: There is nowhere to run...
... Even your thoughts are no longer safe.
The black crow sits softly, silently waiting; watching.
Your eyes meet, as you absorb the requisite knowledge:
Another dosing of the medicine you adamantly refuse to swallow.
Your stomach lurches as you continually choke on the atmosphere.
(Blackened souls never bear sunlight)
Indeed, a testament to the month in which we live."
Seven Red, One White