The mountain peaks and tree line meet at such an angle,
That sunlight, partially eclipsed, barely breaks through.
Warm, bright light pouring through the cracks onto the forest floor.
With the wind sweeping leaves right up to heavens door.


I was so fooled I could have sworn,
That the trumpets of angels,
Was resonating from the forest's door.


A ways behind us,
On the other side we are met with a valley of death.
Vultures swoop low, picking at the remains of men.
The sunlight's rays cannot reach the depths of this hell.
With cries of men who's soul they did sell.

I was so fooled I could have damn near sworn,
That the cries of the dead,
Was painting the valley's floor.


"Where should we set up camp?" the other's asked.
I snapped out of reverie in which I had started to bask
"We could always sleep right here." I quietly said.
I have always enjoyed living my life on the edge.