Old Ghosts
Old Ghosts
The lightning strikes,
and the wind blows,
The night has fallen as the
moonlight shines to
bear witness to the
rising of their old souls.
The howls billowing from
their throats carry to
my ears by the breeze,
those once alive and now
long dead because of twine
tied around the head of
their black bodies hanging
from the trees
the shuffle of the deceased
horrible, tortured, beaten
into a death that bears
no peace, the hosts
cannot and will not sleep
until the crimes which
caused their casualties
cease. Their eyes glow
with the power of afterlife
their spirits raised in
resurrection, bloated faces
that bear no smile
broken necks and wounds
that were filled with sad
confessions written by rejections
swing low sweet chariot
is the song they sing and
a blood red rose is the
flower they bring
to that old tree and
the rope that swings
and I scream! But not from
fear, but the tragedy I see
as one of the old ones turn
to see my face
and whispers this
into my mind: it said if
history is not changed
you will be me.
