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(Rewritten version of The Angel). They see me in the moonlight. They see me in the sun. I scare them at twilight. But my job is never done. They see me by the graves now. They see me, I'm so old.
#nightdwellers Gravestone poetry, Monolithic scribing made In the witching hours, privately On your own, Sitting with your back, To a gravestone.
The smell of wet earth and general dank filled her nostrils. The sky had only just finished its weeping. The stones jutted up from the ground like manmade stalagmites. On each was a name.
She walked through the icy path, her hands in her pockets. Her face was white but as beautiful as the wintery sun. Every breath she took. The white smoke escaped her lips, then faded into the air.
~Another spooky story; credit to whoever~ When Felix Agnus put up the life-sized shrouded bronze statue of a grieving angel, seated on a pedestal, in the Agnus family plot in the Druid Ridge...
#halloweenparty. A place of serene beauty. For you and everyone. Admittance here is free. Once you've passed your setting sun. When at last you're ready. A different world awaits.
#halloweenparty. #acorns. Down among the dead. A place I sometimes go. Even though I'm only visiting. And there's no-one here I know. I come here for the solitude. And peace I gain herein.
Broken tombstones scatter the ground an erie silence surrounds The old decaying tree's branches no longer reach for the sky a single Black Raven listens to the undeads cry.
#halloweenparty. A misty fog. Shrouds my sight. As I venture. Into the darkening night. Stalk along alleys. Hidden well. None shall know. None shall tell. Stride blindly. Through the thick blanket.
Churches and graveyards are all around. With so many bodies just lie in the ground. Most of whom overgrown and covered in moss. It seems to me such a terrible loss. Moss and weeds cover the stones.
Down among the dead. A place I sometimes go. Even though I'm only visiting. And there's no-one here I know. I come here for the solitude. And peace I gain herein. To listen to the voices.
#nightdwellers Sweat dripping down my face, Running - Running at an ever increasing pace, Shadows are old friends that hide me, Around every lamp-post past every tree...
If incidents in ones life are responsible to bring out the writer in them, I a self-proclaimed writer is about to narrate a story which probably would be my very first and last attempt.