In the blackest hours ‘neath pallid moonlight,
I walk a road, this lamentable night,
To a lonely hill, where the crescent glows—
And the dead lie in eternal repose.
A phantasm of fear entwines my soul,
As I timidly climb this sullen knoll,
Her yearning specter relentlessly calls,
Drawing me nearer those decrepit walls.
I reach a gate of iron, locked years untold,
Set deep in the stone infected by mold,
Fiercely battered by a sudden gale,
They rattle like bones at the wind’s assail.
An ancient chain, consumed by leprous rust,
Finally snaps and crumbles into dust,
The gate lurches open with noisome groan,
And I stand to face this horror alone.
Stricken by the chill, cadaverous air,
Reeking of damp earth and lilies of despair,
Creeping forth, past that bleak yawning jaw—
Repulsing me, yet still I feel her draw.
Now my tormented soul begins to seethe,
Her glassy whisper, bids me never leave —
I am seized by fear that I cannot tame,
And shudder as her phantom speaks my name.
Beyond tombstones, moss crusted, cracked and gray
Skeletal wizened willows twist and sway,
Drawing my gaze with their spectral allure—
Towards her open, marble sepulcher.
Far beneath the glow of a lunar gloom,
A scent comes wafting—grotesque perfume—
Carried upon a sallow, misty plume,
As I’m beckoned from within the tomb.
Now the air has taken an icy hold,
My fated undoing starts to unfold,
Through that awful doorway, drenched in shadows—
A terror awaits, grim as the gallows.
Crossing the threshold of this marble maw,
I see her visage, my heart, tortured raw,
Gripped by her love, a fatal, binding charm—
As the heavy door screeches shut with harm.
And now, terror racks my inmost being,
While all the vain echoes of my screaming
Bound fast within that all-devouring grave
Where no voice, no cry, no prayer may save.
Here only echoes wail for swallowed light,
On this melancholy, endless night,
With no release from my terrible doom—
To forever haunt this forsaken tomb.
Still alone upon that destitute mound,
In that cold, dark tomb where no screams resound,
A shadowed figure concealed evermore,
Listening for footsteps outside their door.
©️ 2025 David Cornetta
Made some (hopefully) final tweaks. This poem has been through it.
