The Procession Of The Black Fog

The skeletons of dead trees,
Remnants of past shattered souls;
Cold silhouettes of morbid beauty fading through the fog of death.
A cold, bleak mist rolls through the darkened night,
By the light of the moon tinted a shade of coldest blue.
Through the thickest plumes of vapour, the funeral procession of the unknown.
The end is bleeding.
The funeral march of the dead.
In the procession of the black fog,
Within the endlessness of backwards time;
The torments of the faceless dwell.
As they bleed their nightmarish words from blasphemous mouths.
Their funereal chant of murderous sorrows of the ages past,
Their decrepit solemnity cascading across the night.
Seconds become hours as the funeral begins.