The City of the Dead

The moon is veiled in black,

As the hazy sky cries tears,

As the ground beneath my feet crack,

As the wind whispers my fears.

When I am surrounded by stones,

Some cleanly chiseled, others clearly worn,

I see old souls, wandering alone

With faces deformed and forlorn.

As terror wells in my chest

By the paranormal sight,

The wind demands a quest

And heightens my growing fright.

So in the dreary, dead night,

Tormented by foreboding dirges,

I try desperately to fight

The wind’s increasing tugs and urges.

All the while, something stares me:

An ominous path with crooked trees;

I cower, thinking of what scares me:

Is this the way I can be freed?

At last!—I get up and decide 

To take the chance, the winding road

Perhaps I could not set that choice aside

To rid myself of the gust’s restless goad.

And I find myself smiling, fearlessly

As I plunge into the unknown,

For no longer does death disgust me;

My fondness for it has grown!

I sprint, ignoring warning sounds;

Ignoring the rain’s pounds and pounds,

Ignoring my feet melting into the ground, 

Ignoring the wind spinning me wildly around,

Until—

Silence, a motionless daze;

I fall to the rain-ridden ground,

The smile falls off of my pale face

As spirits begin to appear around

And lay to rest my soulless gaze.