From the Grave
Howling winds whip hanging limbs,
Briskly rubbing headstones.
Scratching deep,
Disturbing sleep of tired bones.
Etching eerie messages
With rasping sounds.
Disquieting passersby,
Visiting burial mounds.
Images in deep shadows,
Slowly crawl, shriek, and sway.
Wraiths in vines climb tombstones,
Scaring animals away.
Overhead an owl leaves its perch,
As specters move in the dark,
Overtly striking, thumping—
Spooks must make their mark.
Come see the gloomy apparitions;
Stand close if you are brave.
Watch phantoms whisk from tree to tree,
As skeletons rise from the grave.
September 30, 2016
Overgrown With Vines - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Broken Wings |
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