This Greyling Sallow Place

Gloomy dismal, and forlorn... that's how this day was borne in a Greyling sallow place where death doth reign without a face. In a boneyard of decaying flesh, one fresh abyss was dug to the depth of six feet before the night was still. With shovel in his hand, the digger gave a shrug and left the land of the dead. The cathedral stood tall but grimly foreboding on the edge of a haunted wood. Built on hallowed ground, where the ancient ones lie decaying in their graves. Knaves and preachers, the righteous and the sinners, followers and teachers... all buried side by side covered now with hoar frost. Lives, once lost never see the light of another morn. They are mourned and tossed into a hole like rubbish and trash, or as ashes interred in an urn after a burn. It's all the same to the reaper. Harsh winds have taken aim at maudlin tree limbs that seem to hang their heads after watching their leaves flayed by Autumn's sinister breeze. Seasonal zephyrs have no pity. They always have their way with the rape of deciduous trees. Winter's chill thrives in a world so still. It's created a haunting silence, one nearly serene in this scene. There's no place to rest in between life and death in such a stygian world. No escape from somber despair. There's only an ominous pall if anything is to be found there at all... it will surely be expounded in the quiet space of such a dreary place.