Cailey Lynn Horn
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Light's fine rays succumb to the power
Of the shadows of Night's embrace.
The dark landscape suffers under the scour
By the probing eyes of Moon's gaping face.
Cold and bitter, the air wraps its knuckles
Against worn and broken window frames.
Years of pressure and the wood buckles,
The trees' o'ergrown claws, like weapons, maim.
An old brick driveway, now devoured —
Greedy vines and weedy hands take its place.
Bright, lively trees here once towered —
Gone, tombstones marked by empty space.
Lazy drafts whisper and roll with a quiet lull