Fading into

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….

 

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