A man, a flute, a dark black cloak.
He sat on top of the fallen oak.
He raised the silver higher, higher.
The sound came out lighter than fire.
The notes they flew through the air;
a sense of darkness everywhere.
The haunting, eerie, whistling tune
blotted out the twilight moon.
A melody of twisted violence
hung around with strong defiance.
A song that seemed to say beware.
The evils coming. The evils there.
A vale of silence came around.
No man in cloak; no haunting sound.
The cold had all it needed to suffice
in it's very first living sacrifice.
