Slumped on age-bowed rails, was a train of deep set misery. It’s one dirt encrusted eye did dim at twilight’s howling hiss-command. It hunkered squat and low, for gravity had cowed it, lashing with wintry-whips. How it did moan! How its wheels did whine! How its soul rattled at bars skank-grim. In diesel bouquets, as burnt and morbid offerings, it crept in as the very death nell of mirth. Involuntarily I stepped away, stumbling almost to the ground. Around it all was cold and becoming colder still. Is this how it moved? Did it steal heat? Did it bring hearts to a hypothermic stutter-halt? It could not be a thing of this world, yet a ghost train, a spectre made of evil’s song.
Wintry wands, waved by nature's hand, take on a bold brown silhouette in silvery air; sometimes "eerie" is as pretty as wild summer flowers.
I am as at home in the eerie as the clear spring days, for I am my own safety, my own protector. That is how the hero is, one cannot be both a rescuer and rescued. I soothe myself. I am calm.
There is a beauty to the eerie landscape, as if in this unsettling fog a new picture has the courage to form.
There is magic in the eerie quiet, as if nature were casting a new spell upon the soul.
Eerie is in the eye of the beholder, for when you are brave you can relax in the sea-foam blues of the air.
In the eerie scene there is a chance to learn how to silence fear and for the eyes to see better than they ever have.