The Lost Whisper of the Clouds
Upon the cloud's edge, a figure lurks.
"Is this the right path to meet the Grim Reaper?" he queries.
"Down the alley, take a left beside the Crypt Keeper's workshop," responds a foggy silhouette.
Silence ensues, but somewhere a raven caws—its GPS malfunctioning.
Above, the clouds twist into shapes of ancient runes.
"These clouds were once sheep," she muses, "but now they are ghosts of agriculture past."
A wind stirs, and the clouds laugh—mocking, echoing their hollow histories.
Beneath, a wanderer trips over the spectral shoelaces of a forgotten soul.
"Watch where you step, the ground is treacherous with lost lives," he mutters, brushing shadow off his coat.
They say skips of a specter's stone can alter fate. Today, it causes an unfortunate slip into an unmarked grave.
"Not again," echoes the eternal grin of Destiny.