Under the tree with its branches bending down to almost kiss the earth.
On green lawn, with few yards off a boneyard, I sat alone by the pond.
Ebon clouds encircled by crimson horizons yielding the morbid mirth,
That therein with my merrily macabre and morbid nature to correspond.
Under the each crimson horizon I could see the truth of untold million,
By North stood the naked bodies of ones who starved to death under pavilion.
By East stood the girls in ripped robs who were trafficked to brothels.
By West sat chilling the reckless folks of the blind town on mountain.
All out of dark a constellation of ebon bats came rocketing to the sky,
Through the outlaws' boneyard from the shadows of a reclining tree.
As morbidly gorgeous it seems to hear, I too was knocked out high,
Yet with bleeding heart, screaming silence, I could hear the outcries.