A silent wind whispered through,
The silent brambles of the fall,
Carrying along the brown, dark leaves,
From their withered fragile holds.

A sign of the coming darkness,
A beacon to hibernation’s call,
And all do prepare to hide away,
Inside a fire’s warm soft shawl.

For does come the majestic chill,
Heralding their frozen king,
To take upon his regency,
The reins away from monsoon’s pall.

A monarchy of the cimmerian shade,
Bringing about an anarchy,
An anarchy of deranged minions foul,
Filling these empty pavements with ghouls.

Their silent howls, call their brethren.
From their deathly coma,
To burst forth from their carapaces,
Into this infernal land.

They roam upon the barren streets,
Eyeing those cowering inside,
Inside their decrepit homes,
Dithering in this freezing fear.

Are you ready, O readers,
For this upon us in nigh,
The time when mighty man bows before,
The true csars of this creation.