Dying Day

From lands imbued with human lies to realms unknown to human eye,where the sycamores lay as barren   as a November day in gloom, where darkening skies birth   quarter moons, kindling an eminents ense of doom as the crescent   scythe looms with sovereign rule, a stoic man on a distant hill   stands and only once attempts to move,gazing up then back to still, as the only truth within this hidden spaceunfolds under gradient stone.

Submit to the dying of the light, to Fate and the coldness of night,  accept the dying of the light, and go gentle this cold night...