Fog distils itself over a death-laden field
Ethereal entities ascend in their armies.
A militia of lost hearts shroud the country-scape
Their fractured features frozen yet oddly unscathed.
Creeping, clawing, crying in their masses
Souls strewn out, neglected by the classes.
A haunted haven welcomes them home
While here they’re left to decay, to erode.
By Tyler Turner