Walk out across the lonely hills.

Stand still and shiver with the trees.

The chilling breezes creep on through 

the gaping holes that no one sees,

and, ghost-like, walk among the daffodils.


The silence hovers like a cloak.

She covers secrets in the air—

lost words, lost songs, lost screams, lost souls—

that no one wants to know are there, 

haunting limbs in the old and spindly oak. 


And in the shadows hide the halls of death,

the caverns where the monsters stay 

and watch. They reach their talons out 

to snatch the tiniest of prey 

and suck away forgotten wisps of breath. 


You can hide that murder kills.

You can walk “uprightly” through the trees. 

But the nightly howl of the wind—

the guilt of crimes that no one sees—

will not be buried in these hills. 











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