The name's Eileen. Lover of geology, animals, funny things, Star Trek (Voyager specifically) and photography.
I often tread where dead men pray,
Where treetops catch the edge of dusk
And let scraps of night fall upon the dirt,
Tinged with grey and cold as winter’s grip
On the shadows of the morning.
Little in the way of light visits upon these places,
It is all weighed down, in hue and in step
By precarious step over stones made smooth
For the sake of treachery against ankle
And bone, beautiful in the imminent fatality.