Darker, darker and darker yet. Winding paths and whistling winds sung silent ghostly hymns through the spaces between the large natural gravestones as shafts of light stabbed through the overhead foliage that blotted out the sun like a thick coating of ink on a clear parchment. The reverberations of ghoulish black figures spotted from the corner of one’s eye darting from place to place in a supernatural manor.

As if the ground itself was alive, the dense blanket of rotting plants and fruits moved and danced into the air in time to the sound of an unknown source of music. They carried on the whirling breeze that ever so kindly brushed away any sign of worldly presence, shrouding those who wonder the useable path with a dark and smog-like cover. Hello clouds, welcome on earth. Every perceivable path now lost to thick blackness. Shadow and darkness becomes all of existence for one who finds themselves leaving The Path. Bright daggers of sunlight withdraw themselves as pen nor sword are able to abolish the inky leaves of dying trees from forever blinding oneself and sending them spiralling into a pit of madness. Visions of the unknown black figures become more and more animalistic and real, to the point of reaching out and longing for the company of them.

Deep inside everybody is a dream. Young dead bird, not me. Wandering and wandering, aimlessly viewing the same bark arms reaching for sweet release as they reach to the sky, attempting to wipe away the thick blotting that removed all sense of direction in the endless wood.

Time and time again, unknown warriors plunged their celestial blades into the sea of black, revealing the requiem of the woods as a dark force waited in slumber to combat the blades directly. The warm glow of light caresses the skin, peeling layer by layer until the unending nightmare becomes pure once again.

A chime and jingle is heard often, that of a child playfully dancing through the contorted wasteland of undying souls. Blissfully unaware as they skipped past each and every one of the pillars of light that may seem as if they are holding up the trees themselves in the mind of a child unknown of the forever ongoing war of dark and light. Skipping innocently through the clearings of the damned’s shattered and broken bodies as they grew from the ground. Such beauty in decay, rust is much lovelier than paint. Though it is doubtful old age will ever occur to those who wander too far from The Path.

As if time itself had forgotten the wanderers of this path. Dead trees. Dead plants. Dead beings. Dead, dead, dead. The once delicate winds, now a glacial gust of unspoken memories and emotions of those departed ones. Weaving in and out of the all-seeing pillars, in and out. Their songs never silenced, never repeated, always new and always quiet. People die, it’s hard to imagine. They die and we put them in the ground like flowers.

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Soooo this is actually a piece of descriptive writing i did for school xD pretty proud of it!