The Cascade

Upon the ancient path, where footsteps do not linger, a spectral fog envelops the forgotten memories of a once-vibrant haunt. Here, the air trembles with the breath of aeons lost—whispers forgotten, words unspoken.

With every turn of the moon’s silver wheel, the shadows whisper secrets of a harvest unripe.
Thus steps the raven, whose gaze holds the horizon's end. Its wings cut the ether in search of the translucent truth that shrouds the night.

Above the cathedral of rotting stone, where ivy chokes the final essence of grace, it perches—silent, vigilant. Beneath, the ground unravels in a tapestry of ruin:**fingers of fate weaving the skeins of destiny.

Might | Resolution | Crows