On the foraging moon what can be said? Long fingers of white caress the homes of the dead. Knocking ever so softly on a long decayed door. There is blood to be had from the bones yet in-store.
The foraging moon that creeps down bellow the white cratering face. He must see! He must know! He skulks down the hall without turning a light sending great beams for his sick, garish light.
The foraging moon now plumbs the depths where widows weep bones to feed the torturous wretch from blood does it pour it's mechanical teeth. On the floor does it blubber it's contraptional reek.
It opens it's jaws and swallows the moon “Deep down in my furnace shall you forage no more! But this was no place for a moon such as you!”