Casket Borne Fruits

At dusk the winds grow heavy, still
And silence falls upon the hill
Where graves are deep and shadows long
The earth hums low, a mournful song

Beneath the soil, in death’s dark keep
The casket-borne doth restless sleep
Yet if thou stir that hallowed ground
Beware the fruit that may be found

For whispered tales, both old and grim
Speak of the dusk, the fading dim
When fruits of death doth rise and fall
And answer not to mortal call

They glitter soft, a pale allure
Yet hide a fate none can endure
Their touch is cold, their taste is death
Their scent the last of fleeting breath

So leave them be, ‘neath moon’s soft veil
And heed not well their whispered tale
For those who pluck such bitter seed  
Shall find their soul no more in need

No light will come, no dawn will save
For all is lost within the grave
The fruit once touched, the end is near
A harvest ripe with endless fear