A Spectre's touch

You aren’t like me

never have, not at all

It’s also true that you’ll never be

and that’s a truth I’ll happily call

The devil in a junkyard

His henchmen out at play

creepers lurking in the scars

scaring the lightning bugs away

Bone justice’s betrothed to us

Here now we’ve been wed; forever joined in vows just bled

Never strayed can we be, forever is not but a rhyming melody

What began as lust, now owns my unrequited trust

I don’t care about those painful words that they speak

I ignore the lies; I damn their pain

You’re the only one I’ll ever need; you’re all I’ve ever sought to seek

And if the truth aches deep in you, we’ll damn it all and start anew

you might strike fear within some,

seeing the ghost that you’ve become,

but I’ll never flee, I’ll never run

…and yes, it is true

You aren’t like me; you’ve never been and never will

For I’m dead to life, or so they say,

And you’re alive, living life through all I believe

A spirit resting peacefully still

Hidden from a world

Whose truth

Only you can truly see

Shadows Peak

Grey shadows purge and fall,

At shadows peak time mends

Each wound in salve,

High time at the sundry

Low tide in the galleys

Rivers puree, mix and blend

Thickening agents of pretend

Opposition great and narrow

Round pegs in the crosshairs

Of the terrible

At shadows peak collusion dries

Painted scabbing removed succinct

When darkness crosses

Our mental images pale and shrink

From sights too sinister to repeat,

Where acuity shrivels and sinks

Holes of tradition, pits of man,

Falling through flesh bound sandy, reckonings

Binding tightly, clinging grasps and knuckling white

Polarities twist and tilt,

Soon the walls collapse,

As the heart renews, it must close its eyes as one breathes,

Of the terrible.

Ghost Story

I’ve never met a ghost,

Actually that is not entirely true,

When I was very young I believed I saw my grandfather

He provided some advice as he briefly spoke to me,

But I’m not ready to call him a ghost, perhaps an apparition,

But the whole haunted house

And paranormal activity, is really not for me,

With their green lights and fancy vans,

 High Tech gear, cameras and fancy paraphernalia,

Devouring an hour maybe two, try as they might

 They fail in bringing any ghoul or ghastly beast to light,

Yes they do claim to hear moans and groans,

Creaking floors and slamming doors,

 To which they weave between semi-interesting back-story

Then every once in a while, when the spirits are in the mood

We may get a shattered window or light bulb breaking,

To which the teams run to fast, dizzying the camera angles,

Panting heavy into microphones,

But never once is it a ghost or emanation,

When all they had to do was take a sheet

And toss it over anyone and call it a specter