Take a stroll down the past,
And there will be an aura that'll last.
Shadows that freak,
At silhouettes that speak.

As the night grows colder and obscene,
Enough to run a chill down your spine,
On the leaves you'll find dew-drops that sleep,
And silhouettes oblique.

The night takes a satanic outfit,
And as the claustrophobia on the clouds sit,
You'll find a laughter piercing the silence of the air,
And those silhouettes with their flair.

The encounter with darkness,
The trepidated madness,
The vigour of the wind that's bleak,
And the silhouettes' mystique.

The thrills inexperienced,
The thunder beating upon the windows,
The composure that drastically dwindled,
And the ages immortal.

Those silhouettes speak too long,
But that's only to seize the time,
And leave the dead only under the moon's inspection.
Afterall, they aren't human creation.