Monuments to the Dead - When Darkness Falls

monuments to the dead

Monuments to the Dead

As the hour grows late

The silence of solitude

Interrupted,

By the haunting creak

That telltale squeak,

Of an ancient gate

Once opened

But now

Swinging closed

By an unseen hand

Imposing and towering

Tipped with terror

Unforgiving

Sharpened spears

Of cold shuddering iron

Slowly closing in

As darkness falls

The night does call

Again and again

To trap the dead within

Waiting silently

The grey void

Flourishing between

Light and night

Dusk begins

Its silent cleanse

Chasing things

Remnants,

Some remain

But soon to go away

Erased,

By splinters of sunlight,

Replaced

With tendrils of dark

Slithering in the spaces

Shaded refuge

Hiding spaces

The courtyard filling

With long shadows

The void tipping

Darkness winning

Grey becomes black

Stone corners

Filling with emptiness

With sadness

And despair

Forgotten dreams

Intertwining,

Interweaving

With that yet unseen

Until the finality

The last piercing glare

Disappears

Until the ‘morrow

Banished over the horizon

And then silence

Ushers in the nighttime

An unsettling gloom

Cold and clammy

Pallbearer of the night

Rolling clouds

Acrid winds

Discomfort,

Uneasiness above

The changing of the guard,

And the landscape

Bending grass

Rebranded

As darkened sickles

Slicing indiscriminately

Cutting through the night

Mist on the walkways

To the left and to the right

Obscuring

Things hidden beneath

While high above

Branches extending

Stout trees bending

Angry claws

Of leafless trees

Reaching

Without seeing

Grabbing

Tearing at the silence

Before retreating

Repositioning

But never stopping

Echoes of hardened ground,

Every direction

And all around

Moonlight soaked granite

Windswept marble

Crumbling stone

While below,

The dead wait

For the summoners,

The mystics,

Nightwalkers,

Spirit guides

And tongue-speakers

Unseen

But forever present

On the surface,

Monuments to the dead

With different

Dates and words

Timeless memories

Etched in infamy

For everyone

…or no one at all

Additional Reading

What’s the Price to Buy Your Soul?

The Summoning

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thegypsy

Owner/Admin at The Gypsy Thread

As a hopeless romantic at heart, Ralph indulges in romantic poetry, but also allows his mind time to wonder across all subjects.A master of vocabulary and word-use, Ralph has a writing style that gives his works their own life, often giving his readers just enough information that they end up doing additional research on his subject matter.