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.

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