At The Graveyard... Poem by DM W

At The Graveyard...

At the graveyard, I can hear the strange moans
And frought pleas of innumerable ghosts.
In wintertime, they drift ominously
On an icy breeze. Black, skeletal trees
Mirror my fears. And I know that one day
Death's honed claws will also come to claim
Me. Yet I will hold on to the pure Light,
Despite the certainty of dreadful Night.

At The Graveyard...
Tuesday, July 2, 2024
Topic(s) of this poem: ghosts,mirror
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