On the graveyard, at night

Over their graves they hover,

the lonely dead in phantom form

like mist while deep beneath

their cadavers in silence turn to dust.

The moonlight dances on these

ethereal mists as they call for

walkers of the night, longing

after human touch and voice.

If a mind open to the call of what

lies beyond should wander

among the tumbling gravestones

and see the ethereal spirits mourning

they should avoid the touch

the dead long for; the essence

of death and mortal life combined

is only death and to speak

to the dead is to join the

feast of the still twisting

corpse that heard the call

- as one of the misty dead.

16.10.2013