Whispers of the Soul

Horror

The Graveyard's Song

In the hush of the night, where the shadows weave,
The graveyard lies quiet, in secrets it cleaves.
Beneath the pale moon, with its ghostly glow,
Whispers of the lost rise soft, low, and slow.

The wind stirs the branches, a mournful refrain,
Carrying echoes of joy, sorrow, and pain.
Each stone tells a story, a life left behind,
And the chill in the air breathes secrets entwined.

Soft rustles awaken the slumbering dead,
While shadows flicker softly, like thoughts in my head.
A sigh in the darkness, a gentle lament,
As if the earth itself holds the weight of their rent.

The path winds through graves where the wildflowers grow,
And each petal trembles with the tales that they know.
A song lingers heavy, a melody sweet,
That dances with phantoms and stirs at my feet.

It calls to the living, a haunting request,
To listen to stories from those who now rest.
For the ground, it remembers, and holds every tear,
A soft, whispered warning that someone might hear.

With each gust of wind, I can almost discern
The voices of those who have yet to return.
"Remember us kindly," they murmur and plead,
As I walk through the shadows, and the night starts to bleed.

Yet as I tread lightly, a flicker of dread,
A chill coils around me, the whispers grow red.
The laughter of children, the sighs of the brave,
Are mingled with echoes that rise from the grave.

And beneath the pale moon, the truth lies concealed,
In the silence of shadows, the darkness revealed.
For not all is restful where the gravestones lay,
As the graveyard's song beckons, and dreams slip away.

So I pause in the stillness, in the haunting refrain,
Feeling both comfort and fear in the chain.
The graveyard's song calls, a mix of delight,
In the eerie quiet, where day turns to night.