The Yawning Yuletide Sky
They ride on the nails of deadmen. Bone-bound sinew woven in white. An endless season in Winter's squall. Harboring the uncertainty of survival. Misty reeds push frozen fields Floating behind the blackest pitch of nite. Above the moors and frigid quay Navigating miles with lacrimas eyes. This cavalcade sends its message, Blanched in bruises, gnawing tongue. The maiming song of the Cold Moon hounds, A baited snare, set by The Wild Hunt. By tome and by omen, by soot and frost, By the trampling of hooves, Hammering their cinders ov Tír na nÓg. By Iron and Smoke, by Gale and Snow, For the first frigid breath hunted out in the open. -You're wasting away, running from the reaper, —you know...