By Bobbi Rightmyer
At night ghosts of the past haunt my dreams calling for requital;
in the morning -
although they can't be seen -
they are always there, waiting ...
Violent clouds are not a stranger
where the wind howls in anguish and mourn for departed souls,
seeming to ask why are they dead.
Musty corridors in the manse of my mind,
lead me on a journey,
taking me to the dead world of the past.
Darkness perches all around
in seeming isolation from the world
as long shadows of fear reach out and try to touch.
Cimmerian shade has come,
forcing the hidden secrets of the past into the light.
Towers of darkness -
the symbols of mystery -
cloud the answers in adumbration.
The caliginosity stands as a dead reminder of the past
casting out eclipses into the night.
They will not die
when they reach out for another.
But the past has intruded
the darkness has filled my heart,
and icy fingers reaches out to other hearts
with a glow I cannot dispel.