The night sweeps in with darkest dreams
in hazy images of places unseen
by a memory which cannot recall
much of anything at all.
What thoughts did Poe on writing find
through twisted years and phantom skies
where birds flew once then disappeared
and clocks that tick for a deafened ear.
We frame the dark in lighter hues,
set ghostly candles in musty rooms
whose flickering adds to the coming night
where a moon will shine on the endless fight
of here and there now gone from view
drifting into shadows as they do,
the whispers linger on humid air
as the moment finds in a new despair
to save the soul through words and hope
whilst empty lies the hangman rope
we tear it down and burn the threads
a funeral pyre for a dream that’s dead.
Feeling a bit gothic (in a good way if there is one) for some reason, ghostly image found on internet and upon seeing it, this poem appeared….