CROWS CALL

Phantoms' drift within a mist.
A black cloak upon the sleeping earth,
and hollowness chills the air,
like that of a ghostly birth.

Nothing heard but that of a fluttering wing and a screeching bird.
A lost crow, black as night,
sits upon a crypt.

Bellowing out his call of the night,
that awakens sleeping bones,
to come forth in the shadows of the night,
looking for life,
and in a chill of death.
A harvest moon creeps out to cast darkness,
like never before.

And creatures of the night arise,
carrying long dark shadows,
throwing off chains that bind
finding witches brewing to delight,
warding off graves and tombs
for to-night is all Hallows Eve,
the ritual of feast.

You may hear the crows call
so beware that he doesn't take your soul.