Poetry and Prose

Ghost of Graves

The spirit of death follows her
Like the ghost of graves yet to be.
Life wilts ‘neath the touch of her hand
As she absorbs the broken and used;
Embodying the sullen and bruised.
Her soul belongs to the eternal
Nighttime lust of human craving.
The world trembles before her
Answering every beckon and call.
She’s known by many names,
Death has claimed her his bride,
We simply refer to her as, Time;
The ghost of graves we’ll one day meet.

-D.A. Baker

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