The west winds wailed and branches brayed
to mourn the dawn of dusk.
As none were safe when darkness reigned
the land they called The Rusk.
The air grew dense with fog that crawled
up over distant hills
and sank into the valleys plush
with ornamental kills.
The bodies hung like chandeliers
of bones freeze-dried with dread.
They rattled in the midnight breeze
like windchimes of the dead.
Into this land a young man came
with treasure in his sight.
He heard the tales of riches claimed
by those who last one night.
“I fear you not,” he dared the wind
and mocked the deathly trees.
“I’m not like all those other fools
who trembled on their knees.”
“So brave, so bold,” the trees replied,
“we’ve seen it countless times.”
And right they were, for now he hangs
among the other chimes.
© 2020, Louis Rosenberg