11 The Graveyard

a poem about a graveyard late at night in the style of Edgar Allan Poe

In twilight's shroud, where shadows softly creep,  

Amongst the stones where whispered secrets lie,  

The graveyard beckons, lonesome, dark, and deep,  

Beneath the watchful gaze of a moon's sigh.  

Each monument, a tale of lives long past,  

With weathered names that time has sought to claim,  

In silence, echoes of their laughter cast,  

Yet mournful is the night that speaks their name.  

The willow weeps, its branches draped in woe,  

As chilling winds do weave through tombs so bare,  

A spectral dance, where ancient spirits flow,  

And linger still, in sorrow’s heavy air.  

Yet in this realm, where death and dreams entwine,  

A haunting beauty dwells, both dark and divine.