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The graveyard lies in fog and dark
And headstones pierce the grassy ground
And bones lie deep beneath the earth
As footsteps fall without a sound.
He is no ghost; no, more than that,
More solid and yet less alive,
Raised silently among the dead
He knows the knowledge none contrive.
Among the flowers on the graves
And names weathered and lost to time
The grass and courage wilt to ash
The air ringing with haunting rhyme.
The fog congeals in stiffened swirls
And swallows with it sight and sound
A door is opened, swinging wide,
Then shuts before its key is found.
The necromancer looked at me,
And whispered, quietly, my name.
"The haunting to the haunted now,"
He says, "and yet, all still the same."
I know no ghost that needs a house
But souls have something else to fear.
Romance is dead, but so am I,
And buried in my grave, my dear.
YOU ARE READING
mediocre poetry.
Poetrypoems written in spare time, mostly unedited, sometimes romantic.
