Underneath the avaricious, subfusc moon, the omens conspire to bring melancholy tidings to you, dear Libra. The balance of your life’s scale, usually so serene, teeters ominously on the cusp of venturing into the benighted abyss. Where formerly the baritone baying of the nocturnal beasts held no terror for you, now each eerie echo sends a shiver of existential dread rippling through the very marrow of your soul. The spectral whispers of dread, once easily dismissed as mere phantoms of an over-active imagination, shall now acquire a frightful, tangible form in your mind’s eye.

Night, usually a blanket of comforting obscurity whereupon your dreams take flight, shall now morph into a fathomless void smeared with melancholic obsidian. The relentless ticking of the clock, a solemn reminder of your mortality has gained a somber momentum, echoing your heartbeat in a fatally harmonious rhythm. Beware, Libra, for the scale of your spirit might tip towards the darkness. Do not confide in the shadows, for they whisper nefarious promises of deceit. Your sanity’s slender thread dangles over the abyss of utter desolation. The riddle to finding tranquility lies in mustering the courage to confront your deepest fears. Stand steadfast, dear Libra, for this night shall pass too, a symbol of your endurance in the face of unspeakable terror.