I don’t agree. The morning fog makes the graveyard beautiful, soft and sad as a voice humming a lullaby, but I don’t tell her what I think. She’d call me a weirdo.
- Raven Smith ↗
Within its gates I heard the sound
Of winds in cypress caverns caught
Of huddling tress that moaned, and sought
To whisper what their roots had found.
(“A Dream of Fear”) ↗