Ras Zebradog (vivo) wrote in painteddays,
Ras Zebradog

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A scene =3

A graveyard is always a quiet place, and that's to say nothing about a graveyard in winter, especially during that hour of the day when the sun has gone to rest but the last of its light lingers on.

Shadows that but a few moments before had stretched beyond imagination suddenly merge and dissolve into ambient nothing; the brilliant white of recent snowfall fades and darkens, reflecting the deepening blue of the sky around. Black branches hang heavy, icicles sparkle dimly. Frost clings to the scattered bunches of flowers, dropped by some lucky gravestones. Most sit heavy with moss, angels and crosses, pillars and simple slabs, and all are topped with the glistening whiteness.

Who would come here, to this silent, lifeless place? Who comes here, as darkness stirs?
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