Hollow Eyes, Hungry Beak

In the pale breath of fog, a hand of stone stretches forward, veins split open, blood falling like red prayers into the silence. A crow bends its beak, drinking from the wound as if it were communion, its eye gleaming with secrets, ancient and unspoken. Behind, a ghost waits— hollow eyes stitched from shadow, a shroud of absence drifting in the mist, watching, not watching, being, not being. At the ghost’s feet, a pumpkin rests, bright and round— the only ember of warmth in this world of gray. It is harvest and haunting, death and feast, a quiet hymn to endings that drip, drip, drip into forever.