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

I tended a garden once,
behind walls too low,
in a pasture too wide.

The vines reached for strangers
with reckless kindness,
begging to be named beautiful.

You came with smoke clinging to your sleeves,
promises falling from your mouth,
and I, fool that I was,
welcomed you.

With greedy hands, you plucked petals,
stepped on seeds meant for tomorrow,
your breath embers against my harvest.

The skies darkened.
The rivers boiled.
The orchard withered from root to leaf.

And there I stood,
ash stuck to my skin,
silence heavier than stone.

I stayed to bury what you left behind:
The wilted vines,
the broken promises,
the ruined songs.

From the shattered soil,
I built a citadel from broken things.
It stands, heavy and hollow,
Strong enough for silence to live inside.

I am no longer waiting
for careless hands to stumble upon me.
I do not open gates for ghosts.
I hope their hands break before they knock.

My sister is driving miserably
While I’m writing some novel with ghosts
The song playing sickens me biblically
Like the angels with eyes for words
There’s a light from the street eating me
Awkwardly asking for me to be free
‘O sweet, little phantom don’t stop waiting
One day I’m sure to oblivion I’ll flee

My sister them murmurs asking me
The stars from the mirror to see
All I could sight were murderers of dreams
That will never belong
And my heart is the only noise I need
In this hypothetically, torturous day
The stars crown the sky
And music exploits people’s aches with dance
But I’m still writing letters to unknown lovers
Pretending I’m ******* their happiness
While searching the meaning of lust
As they still owe me what’s left from my soul
‘oh how I’d like to kiss you until breath’s presence is gone’
I write while I’m adjusting some tears that will never fall

The ghosts from the novel are inspired by oaths I took
Promising myself to make friends with
Nostalgia and grief
Someday I might publish it
Maybe when I’m already a ghost
Maybe my work will be lost for a while
And the letters will find their suitors without me

But until then I’m a memory
To someone’s yearly alcohol dose

And the song changes suddenly
Reminding me the melody
That nights harmonize
To eros’ arrows
And I’m longing to bleed
So I can feel
What psyche yearned for in life
The most.

Every forest harbors secrets.
The bark and branches are the keepers.
The abandoned house towered,
in a paralysis of time.
The only thing alive
was the strangling of the vines.
It stood in dilapidation
with a menacing expression.
Inside the air thick with voiceless confessions.
Heard somewhere in my shaking soul.
Hollow window eyes
possess the shatters of time.
Who were the inhabitants?
And are they alive?
It's time to go inside.

The air hums with unseen eyes,
pressing against my skin like ghosts of unspoken words.
I do not know if they are real,
or if it is only my own mind feeding me these lies,
splitting at the seams,
a quiet unraveling.

I try to name this feeling,
but it slips through my fingers,
a silver thread lost in the dark.
It swells inside me,
a tide with no shore,
a song with no voice,
an echo that answers to nothing.

I fear the hollow behind my ribs,
the stranger who lingers in my reflection,
watching, waiting,
as if they know something I do not.
I fear the quiet hands of time,
folding me into something I cannot bear to be,
softly, gently, as if I won’t notice.

I dream of dissolving,
of fading like breath on a mirror,
becoming dust,
becoming light,
scattering into the arms of the cosmos,
where even sorrow turns celestial.
Perhaps there, I would not ache.
Perhaps there, I would not be.

I am tired—
of the weight in my bones,
of the ache stitched into my name,
of carrying this endless dusk
where no dawn ever follows.
Even sleep offers no escape,
only the same restless descent,
only the same hushed grief.

I feel like a detective
brushing down
a crime scene,
or perhaps a
runaway bride,
hiding in plain sight.
Lost
but not gone,
the fingerprints
washed away,
the ****** weapon
left behind.

There's no past like it,
and no future to follow;
a ghost that
breathes,
a newborn that
doesn't.
I feel
like the
final chapter,
and nothing
more.

I haunt,
I linger,
I remain,
though only in
death and decay.
Though only as a ghost.

My mother
taught me that.
My mother taught me
how to haunt,
how to be there but
not really.

How to be
a ghost that
breathes,
or, perhaps,
a newborn that
doesn't.