posted on Oct, 21 2014 @ 01:24 AM
Hidden, hidden, sings the lark,
tree branches craggy and rough,
then takes shape of epic flight,
warnings not heeded so they go.
Silence now, so disturbing,
strange to see the leaves untouched,
not a single track, but they blow,
a crisp rustling sound like death.
One step, two step, enter not,
only in the grave should they rot,
restless eyes dart so quick,
express the scream that won't come out.
Fly like that lark, wings burning hot,
run to the city in the dark,
where the thunder is heard all day,
and Occam's razor is not obeyed.