A ghost is born

 

Every moment another ghost is born,

torn from the living, 

to the lands beyond.

Where they haunt,

like memories

of a chilly day in December.

Hazy hate-stained reminder

of every floating burning ember.

 

Every second another ghost is born,

to wonder

where their lives went so wrong.

To look out at the great unknown,

morose.

With eyes that will no longer close.

Eyelids that are see through,

transparent

all you see is the cold wet dew.

 

Every cycle of the moon,

a host of ghosts are born, 

too soon.

To wander lonely

like leaves torn from trees,

blowing in the breeze.

These newcomers to the other side

need an overseer. a guide,

to help them cope.

The man in black is there

to show them the ropes.

 

Every second another ghost is born,

ripped from the living

to the land of the gone.

Face pulled tight and forlorn,

features weary, ragged and worn.

Screams moulded on face like wet clay,

dripping into another day.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Peace, Love and Poetry 

 

Kyle