The Shadows beckon you to die.
Long shadows they are -
of confusion, pain and death.
But, merely shadows they are.
They beckon you to die.
They beckon you to die.

Underneath the shadows,
invisible to the eye,
far from what ears can hear,
engulfed by guffaws of darkness,
birds purple, yellow and bright,
call you to stretch your wings.

The voices rarely reach,
The colors are rarely seen,
Except for a far cry of lament,
or maybe a tear trickling down,
through a crack in the thick shadow wall.

Gallant souls have stretched their wings,
taking to the night sky,
cutting through the dense shadows.
But bravery is a trait that shadows eat,
and one needs plenty to fly.

The shadows tell stories of life.
Campfire stories they all are,
a shadow telling to another, 
about the captive soul that it has wrapped
in its bosom tight and snug.

What story does a soul believe -
the one from the shadow that is loud,
or from a bird underneath the shroud?
the one that beckons to die,
or the one that urges to fly.

Campfire stories they are, of fear and horror,
Only campfire stories of shadows they are.