The Death Of A Ghost. Poem by Kevin Hulme

The hours stretch out, those points of emptiness my existence now fill, This wreck I wander and among the ruins I walk, with the burden I carry by its laws and foul will. My fellow the Owl I hear sounding afar, For outside the night is alive to its calling. The Fox from it's Den to the fields that he prowls, The Bats And The Moths to the Woodlouse crawling. For the life of a Shade, what life that it is, becomes weary from the weight that is cast. To wander among Rooms and Cavern black halls, To hide in plain sight with the peeling damp walls, Condemned to remember dear Souls of the past. Now beyond the pane a glimpse of life, those Mortals that stray into my view, Do I envy their loves and trivial woes, all petty highs and sorry lows? For they were dramas as such that my bones greatly knew. What it is to Love once more, to play the game whatever the cost, And feel the Sun in all its moods, But know the past is a Manuscript lost. Yes I Damn them and myself for this Death Born a second time. What blackened Sin and Treacherous act, a moment forged where passion lacked, was considered bad my ultimate crime? Yes to die again within this crumbling Tomb, for the Rats and Vermin in nature stand, all equal in Soul to this sorrowful man. Now the branches wave by the stormy wind, to the moans and creaks of this ancient home. The dripping eaves above the trodden walk, By the gaping cracks this Spector roams. Through the Chambers, past the doors, They echo with lives that flourished now gone. Their stories told, All dramas end, Like the distant days they dreamed upon. And so the Moon shows a pacific face, The house it stands all silver bright. A witness you'd say to this Gnawing Death, Through Centuries That follow, from Day unto Night.