I stand in the center of this knee high weed field.
It sways back and forth with the nighttime breeze,
In front of me dead dismal branches attached to large peeling tree trunks groan under the weight of the night sky.
I run a cold hand threw my long hair..
I watch the clouds caress the edge of the moon, threatening to take away my light.
Frantic is my heart anticipating the coming darkness.
The breeze ceases. The tree groans turn into a low whisper.
My ears ring in the silence,
all I can see is the glittering pond to my left, inhabited by an empty, desolate row boat.
Nobody sits upon it's seat. Nobody embarks across the lake with the oars attached.
Instead it lets the moving water determine its journey. It sits waiting for the breeze...
I stand waiting for the light.
Slowly light emerges.
Bringing into focus the ghosts playing in the field.
They stand behind every object standing tall around me.
I look behind me and sure enough my ghost stands close.
This time I realize we can't hid. Not in the night nor in the light.
Always does our shadow follow, close... So close.
Waiting on us.