The Ghosts of Nightfall
Seeping screams of tortured souls,
Sway in the light of dusk.
Shrill enough to wake the dead,
And seeming somewhat brusque.
Amidst the blazing quarrel,
Gold and brown bids farewell,
Limp and frail flutters away,
Forced by the gusty spell.
Many ghosts of passing wolfs,
Will rouse the hidden moon,
Casting faint naked shadows,
To depict a grave tune.
But, the orange horizon,
Begins to warm the chill,
And every ghost of nightfall,
Leaves morning calm and still.
