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laying benath the crimson tree and dying orange canopy, swallowed by the bloodied sky eyes saturated by the deep redness, exploding from the awsome sun slipping down the horizon, my eyes stained by my blood. The frosted chill sucombs the air, the cold killer moves silently, deadly, across the plain. only i can hear the haunting crackle of the crows wicked call. the cry of hunger echos through my soul. i savour the ancient whisper of the trees, more then just a gentil breeze. they say, the night wind wailling from the north, i feel signs of autumn has returned, dagda has returnd from slumber, the taste of death is ripe. as i lay beneath the crimson tree thinking "i am but a lost soul seeking to go back home for the sake of peace." and as i lay beneath this bloody tree, drunk, ripped and shatterd. already my shell is rotten beneath the dead leaves. as my body sinks deeper into the ground, i savour my last breath as if it were my first whilst overcome with the taste of death. the lights dim out, and when night is here i will say good-bye, but you will not release me from your crys. my ghost lingers will linger every time a tear is shed, i will haunt you with the sickness of grief. the grief that reminds you of your fate yet to come.