Whistles of the Aftermath

The deep octaves

of the wind pull me in

beyond the black picket fence.

The weight of the air

decreases from the lack

of breath and high count

of lost souls.

My eyes blacken

as a sea of vampire bats

form a shadow in the sky.

There's something about their presence

that adds a royal darkness

to the weeping willows.

Buried beneath my feet

are stories untold.

Decaying faces

chewed apart

thanks to the creatures of the soil.

Isn’t it ironic

that they eat the dead

to stay alive?