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The village gravesite on a typical night
is a place stirring nary a sound,
where the night watchmen dread to watch over the dead,
when the dead won't stay under the ground.
You can feel the time pass like the weeds over grass,
until the clocktower strikes three,
then nothing stands still down in epitaphville,
when the residents go on a spree.
The non-living lay only whispers away,
and are mindless to worldly affairs,
'til reaping the power that haunting, late hour
to catch the night guard unawares.
The shivers begin creeping under the skin,
hearing voices amongst the headstones.
The watchman looks 'round for a soul to be found,
yet there's nothing but coffins and bones.
With the fog drawing nigh on a blackening sky,
the watchman continues his rounds.
As he shines a light into the dark, gloomy night,
he's aghast by some shuddery sounds.
He reaches for nerve from his “pocket” reserve
as he pulls out an 80-proof flask,
which bolsters his bravery against the unsavory,
to forge through the grim, nightly task.
The chilling affair hears a ring in the air,
sounding help for the weary unbrave;
the timely clocktower just signaled the hour
when the spirits return to their grave.
Copyright © William Tatum | Year Posted 2020
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