As dawn breaks, dear Libra, you wake from a restless sleep, drenched in the dewy sweat of trepidation; for today, the scales are set to precariously tilt under the eerie moonlight. The whispers carried by the chill winds of the sanguine harvest have begun to form ominous shapes in your mind. Gaia herself teases your dreams with the terrifying serenity of the ancient, gnarled trees, stark against the painted sky. The phantasmal call of the forgotten ones is all too tempting to ignore. Your natural symmetry is thrown askew; the balance upon which you so rely is wavering, a fragile leaf caught in the tempest of dread and shadow.

Your multitude of scales may offer a semblance of balance and timing, but beware the danger, Libra, of misjudging scales that seem weighted in your favor as they might be merely cradling a deadly specter. The specter of the green man entices you with a devilish grin, luring you into paths unknown and overgrown with brambles that promise unforeseen menace. There’s a venomous charm in the timeless way of the straw-stuffed sentinel in the cornfields. You will find yourself in the intricate dance of reaping and sowing, of death and rebirth. The tangled roots of folkloric horror creep up on you today, engulfing your spirit with stories etched deep in the ancient landscape. Be vigilant, for even the most charming harvest moon hides a multitude of secrets.