Spectres

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Hand writing text message on the paper sheet. Working as copywriter or journalist. Creative mind and brainstorm. Flat vector illustration

As I saunter an avenue of overgrown gravestones
The sunlight’s already descended way past dusk.
There’s the indistinct sound of muted whispers
Accompanying the smell of old bodily musk.
There are sounds of lowered muffled voices
Carried past me, on a soft night time breeze.
As I listen more closely, what’s that I hear?
Surely not, the jangle of mausoleum keys.
There is the sound of departing soft footfalls
When I pass close by the archaic crypt.
Surely no one’s still transposing in there,
The ancient building, now long years, derelict.
From behind the clouds an appearing moon
Lights up names on pitted headstones.
Was that my name inscribed on one?
Surely not yet! I’m still here, living bones .
I can distinguish hushed spirits’ undertones.
Whether old or were still in their prime
They tell of accidents, happening in life
When some were called away long before time.
They speak to each other in muted whispers,
Sometimes with a gentle perceptible sob.
But these spirits are not there to hurt me
That was never a terrestrial spirit’s job.
I should be more scared of the living.
Essent spirits are never there, to inflict.
Amongst ancient and young wakened spirits
Their terrestrial spans were hard to predict.
There are woken spirits always wafting among us
Some days you may notice, if feeling alert.
It’s the living world you have to watch out for
Terrestrial spirits are not here to hurt.
From the clouds, the moon emerges again,
Lighting the avenues of pitted stones.
I observed spirits there protecting our departed
Lying at peace, now heavens’ blessed bones.
Walking amongst graves, spirits and tombstones
At night, reminds me of my coming fate.
Well it’s really my own stupid fault.
I shouldn’t have entered, a night time, left open gate.

With regards from
Mick Scarles
(SW19 expat)

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