Beneath a starless sky they sail.
The black waves sing a song.
They serenade the ebon sky,
their voices loud and strong.
The ship of seasoned sailors
chose to brave them all the same.
Beneath a starless sky they sailed
for fickle fortune’s fame.
The waning crescent moon no help
to navigate the sea.
It watched the skimming bow cut kelp
and rose indifferently.
The sailors didn’t count the cost,
and so they paid the price.
The black waves and the crescent moon
had caught them in a vise.
The ship went down,
the sailors drowned.
The town folk whisper why.
The crescent moon,
celestial scythe,
will cull your soul
to die.
Beyond Panic 