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This will all pass away

One hundred years I watch

Buds wither to husks

Aching for the sun,

but they are held fast,

frozen in skeletal hands

And nests lay empty.

Crawling through cold days

No mirth for Men;

no harvest to succour;

despairing,

souls flee before the blaze...

Death reflected in the Hunter's moon

Drapes crimson light on mountains

Cloaked in pine

Crouched in shadows beneath the eaves,

No more the lamb in wolfen maw,

I am waiting.

They will come

Red eyed and frothing

They will come

A Shadow looming behind.

Beyond the horizon gathered

In lifeless oaken glades;

He winds his horn wild,

The hounds, baleful, howl.

With the voice of the gale

He calls the Hunt's advent;

Through stormlit skies

They swiftly ride

Bellowing of doom to come.

Oh, it will come,

but it shall not be mine-

doom of another kind.

This will all pass away.

The Wurmwinds blow as ne'er before

The earth in ragged gasps heaving

The ghostly Hunt through sheets of white churning

Drawing ever nearer...

The howling cold so cosmic grows

That even shades succumb

The inexorable tide of the dreaded Hunt

Slows to a crawl, straining against time

The earth exhales her final breath

And they dissipate

The last stench of mankind is washed away in the snow

The Anthropocene throne crumbles

Let the dead earth fold me into her breast

As these wilted pedals I've held clasped to mine

Oh let me sleep, let me fade away

And never return,

I am weary of this world.

Mine has been a tale of desolations,

Putrescent tides of a loathsome sea

But at last, like the sea, I recede.