The Ghostly Forrest
Beneath the ghostly moon's silent gaze,
Lies a forest shrouded in a spectral haze.
Where twisted trees claw at the sky,
And shadows dance as the winds sigh.
A place where the veil is thin and frail,
And spirits wander, their faces pale.
The air is thick with whispers old,
Of secrets dark and stories untold.
The ground is soft with fallen leaves,
A carpet of decay that the earth weaves.
Each step is hushed, a silent tread,
In the realm of the living and the dead.
The ghostly forest, a liminal space,
Where time stands still, without a trace.
Here, the lost souls find their rest,
In the embrace of the earth's cold breast.
An owl hoots, a lonesome call,
As night creatures begin their nocturnal sprawl.
The forest breathes, a sigh so deep,
Rocking its ghostly children to sleep.
So tread lightly through the spectral wood,
Respect the silence, as all should.
For in the ghostly forest's heart,
The line between worlds is but a fragile art.
Copyright ©
Dave Harding
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