Through the still and distant dark, in the early hour there's a moving power coming over the hill, a shrill cry of a crow. From an angry bill, the distance fills with its angry will.
A single leaf has stayed the night without his sleep. Yet awake, he tarries weak. And then the scream.--Coming is that moving awful thing. Of the night? He lasted on. The single leaf has kept, has held, and holding well has proved himself adept through atrophy that came and passed and brothers/sisters fell at last—their weaker numbers grown to mass of all, save himself there holding. Against that fate of gravity was only he left quivering. The single leaf so heavy hung, so held his grip--his song now sung, his tongue now old, his body weak. His tarry'd been so godly meek that should inherit he the earth and tree, but naught to him was this to be.
Anon:
Amidst the fog and uncut, holding, low-hung dawn that conduits the raucous shriek unto the leaning, naked tree, where, whether by mercy or by malady, to tempt or toss the tired leaf, with earless form he hears the sceam, whose forceless touch, like awful dream, wakes and shakes him in the scene ..to quivering, as it does me.
That distant cry like arrow nigh flies pierce-ed, screeching, aiming high upon the point of waking death at stem to branch. And, so resolves us, "So it be, if this is all that he or I can feel or see. And, if so here that hearing we the call of enemy should fall alone departed, so it be. So set our hearts and so congeal our souls to hold our earthly molds in one more stay amidst the black; against one more day's squalor-ed attack; amidst one more cackling of beasty's voice; and once more yield our souls in choice to kneel before Heaven gritting against devils—Ahh, what a choice!
Though resolved to yet uphold, we fear the fate of downward fall. Would into stealing eyes be pulled? Would I feed a belly already full, where heaping and golden there graven's the goal? Awakened teeth, a thousand strong, opened glad the weakening call of the beasty's single caw.
And though that earthbound Supper,
with his cavernous mouth
and cavernous hunger for his cavernous couch
to be full of supernally
fallen things,
so opens his cavernous ears
to the scream
of the ravenous
beckoning
of manifest
raven-oused
obscene gravitas.
And though, that suboscine
ilk of ill dignity, Gravity,
smiles such at the beckoning,
waiting through echoes
like arrows for the reckoning
of our fateful drop.
Yea, though we're quivering:
This promise we bring, 'In an early hour,
a moving power
will come over the hill,
coming through the still.'"
So the Supper and Quivering
continue listening
whilst echoes settle,
dark until
all is settled
dark and still.
In the early hour,
there's a moving power
coming over the hill,
coming through the still.
Through the heavy haze
of a thousand sprites
in demon shroud
remained from night,
as second night 'ore
the morning light
—as a ceiling,
there set upon the foggy air,
its residue to loom and loom,
till looming echoes once a tomb
become a tone
unheard, undone.
And every shadow of the sun
beneath its fog
rests darkly.
And when it does,
a something comes.
In shadows silent,
something shows,
something distance cannot know
yet, but shows
in shiftings, bad intent.
There croon creshendoes
in strengthed hum,
and something moves,
and something comes
from woody black,
so silent, tall,
and true as sin
in depth and all
darkness.
There the deadened cry
ignites the trees
to spark. Then fire
of winged beasts into the shroud
are darting in and down and out
they start there coming, coming down
in this direction
with the whispered sounds
for every horrid inch
of forward motion.
There, in the early hour,
there's a moving power
coming over the hill,
coming through the still...
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