Music Into Poetry

F Sharp Minor

Chilly gusts of wind blow,

Afraid, the sun lies low

A place of little color and light,

Half alive and half dead.

Ghosts fly to and fro,

Some with eyes like crows,

Others with warm smiles,

And the rest blank of emotion.

Along grey roads they roam

From white wisps to bright domes,

They travel in any form desired

And can scare foreigners away

Howls and wails pierce human ears,

At night is when you really should fear

Icy touches send goosebumps at once,

Countless deceased souls beside you.

If you survive this ghostly play of madness,

Friendly ghosts may rescue you from its clutches

Those who aren't as lucky choose to flee this realm,

Only to push desparately against a firmly locked gate.

In this endless terrain and equally unending solitude,

Ghosts laugh, hover motionlessly, or engage in feuds

Eerie sensations crawl up the skin of even brave mortals,

Taking away their vitality rapidly like water from a cupped hand.