Words on the Wind by Jared Kulp ~ep

The old oaks moan in ashen night
to a choral, rattling breeze,
as the moon slips again from sight
into the cloudy seas.
Dim skeletons dance to each gust,
bodies scratching along the earth,
staggering to their pace of lust,
and to their place of birth.
In growing light the chill departs
and at long last the day may start. 
And I reply to the words on the wind
An unsettling phrase, “Please forgive my sins.”