Chasing Ghosts

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

Twilight wanes as a rolling mist sweeps a forgotten glen,

The moon hangs high in sheens of red, engrossed in a silver luminesce,

Alone a wandering maiden twists through oaken trees and a grassy fen,

Up the hill and beyond a scattering of stones, their lustre a darkened essence,

The moor draws shut, towering spires, as footsteps cut through the thin venire of the minds of men,

Echoing calls cascade lightly against fallen stones, their eyes behold a lovely presence,

Her heart goes free in the midnight hour, dancing, trembling within a cranial pen,

She remembers his touch, whisper, cords played to bitter-sweet evanescence,

A gambit chasten, clutched close at hand, an eternal promise with no answer as to when,

Against better judgement she runs, chasing ghosts, for that unforgettable quintessence,

Clouds shroud what little light is left, and beyond they cling to wisps that flicker and fade,

Lost in darkness, in longing and pain, for remedy that exists only in the solemnity of the shade.