A darkened painting appears from the shadows, its sullen canvas drips with death's eerie embrace. Once more the paintbrush awakens, weaving intricate patterns and breathing life into the lifeless; conjuring dreams from the nothing. Enticing madness from sanity. The scene has set; the black sky looms. The reaper watches on.
The injured, inky tree stands brave, tired limbs trembling to the cold thud of steel upon wooden flesh. Golden parachutes leap from the branches in droves, their homes destroyed. Their dreams shattered. Alone, in a sea of arboreal corpses, life trickles into the night.
The watercolour moon gently bathes the lands; timber statues soaking in silvery tears of light. The sharpened blades glint menacingly, screaming for demise. Lusting for blood. The tree winces once more, a noiseless shriek. Silenced by cold truth.
For just a moment, light floods the sky, leaving behind a drought more painful than the deepest cut. Above, dark hooded shapes swirl menacingly, trails of shadow left in their wake. Devouring the faltering remnants of the moon's silvery touch. A rumble echoes through the graveyard, distant cackles of a faraway god. The heavens breach. The sky has fallen.
A fire burns in the night, deathly charcoal scents swarm the valley. The brave tree stands alone, blackened limbs crumbling to nature's fiery wrath. Darkened souls drift to the heavens on plumes of shadowy cloud and dust. The reaper watches no more.
A final groan. A trembling sigh. A mighty crash.
The flames lick hungrily at the dulled and silent axes, tasting justice as they smoulder. The moon peers sadly from behind it's darkened veil; a mourning deity in the stars. The time has come; the world slows gently, vivid colours set in place. A final, dry solace has begun.
The canvas complete, a paintbrush rests once more..