A Living Ghost
It was a snowy winter evening when lonesome wakeful I went wandering,
My feet moved of their own accord as I was thoughtless wondering,
I was drawn down the road by some strange unknown attraction,
and I hardly guessed where I had stepped in the midst of my distraction.
It must have been the sudden gust of chilling wind that broke my reverie
But ’twas a different chill pimpled my skin to find I was now in a cemetery.
I felt an eerie presence at my back as if someone were standing just behind me
And I froze in place, too afraid to turn and look, in dread of what I might see.
Finally I found the courage to face my fear–only to find nothing at all was there
Naught but a wispy wraith of steam from off my breath into the cold night air.
I felt the fool–tricked by my own imagining into such a state of disquietude!
I almost hoped some shade might appear to chase away the spectre of my solitude.
Is my loneliness so heavy, that I should crave even the company of the deceased?
What a thing to want!
And I wondered to myself in the stillness of that night, if I am not haunted–
Then do I haunt?
Unbidden by the denizens below, have I trespassed into their abode, an uninvited guest?
Who careless in my tripping dares disturb the dreamless sleepers’ rest?
I watched the falling snow fill my footsteps, erasing all trace of where I’d tread.
As if I had appeared there from out of nowhere like a phantom–a living ghost among the dead.
What is Inktober? You can learn more about it here.