it loomed like a ghost in the falling day.
an hour past the town on the way
the old man's eyes bore surprise
i wouldn't advise it, sir, not wise
waking them up is no sport
they who're sleeping in the dead men's fort.
All along i've been a phasmophobic
they ceased never to rule my head
lurking in nooks and under my bed.
it sounds nice to talk about spirits and souls
but at nights when hollows of burning coals
mistily appear and not in a dream
choke me out of scream
to that terror i fall an abject slave.
but my companion on that dusk was brave
looking at those eerily towering spires
he said let's try meeting a few vampires.
there was no door opening with a creak
but inside was a musty dark hole
where daylight made a quick retreat
as if to let the dead peacefully stroll.
we climbed up stairs strewn with dry leaves
amid sensing a storm brewing on the wing
for the awakened dead in anger seethes
to have their rest broken by the living.
soon swept us a gale of the squeaking dead
driving us out of that well occupied well
surely startled by the intruders' raid
the winged vampires were fleeing like hell.
a true story, my cover photo is the place where it happened.