Whispers In The Dark
Under a moonless autumn sky,
with goosebumps fresh on my skin
and the bitter tang of musty earth
popping
my tastebuds,
I pause, and tilt my head;
whispers in the dark
surround me,
a whirl of murmurs swirling,
speaking to me from
beyond the grave
the stone path
winds
its way among the mass
of memory-stones,
and I follow,
my heartbeat left behind
at the black iron gates
this home for disembodied
souls
is shrouded in inky night—
most of the living plan their visits
in the daylight,
so they can admire their expensive
stones, and smell the sweet fragrance of
their flowers,
but I like to feel my skin
touched
by the reverberations of voices
from times long past,
if I listen I can hear my mother
calling me in after dark,
and in that moment
I feel loved.
The Writer In Me . . . 