Alive

dark.
moonlight shines through the trees illuminating
the aged stones,
the names of the deceased
flickering like eyes in the shadows

A breeze stirs the leaves.

Tense footsteps,
dancing shadows -
tricks in the peripheral vision;
disfigured bodies move about the graves.

keep expecting a high pitched scream
a moan
a hot whisper;
but there’s nothing but brittle silence,
leaves swaying and cackling in the wind.

antonym to the crunchy leaves,
the ground is nearly porous with
thick, clumsy, gloopy
mud.

the wind whistles and fingers the trees with
bony hands, and nothing evades it.
chilling the bones, the stone, the hairs on the back of your neck,
it silently screams,
a restless, long, lost,
mourning soul.

the air is crisp and hard;
there is no smell.
only fear.
the sound of your heartbeat
above all else.

the fence ahead dully reflects the ghoulish moonlight,
the symbol for the end of the journey.

touching the cold and rugged metal, gripping tight,
hoisting yourself over.

once on the other side,
a sigh of relief.

until

the wind tickles

one last word
before you leave

a faint moan in the breeze.