One of my favorites. About death and ghosts and such. Now spaced! Hooray!

--

Ghost Angels

I heard a singing in the woods,

A far off and distant melody

And I wonder if I could

Learn the tune to cease my

Inner entropy—

Nothing matters here in the night,

Far away from the city lights,

And should my soul refuse to fight

In holding onto life so tight…

That would be all right.

--

I hear a singing in the woods

And wonder what could make the sound

That floats and waves. I feel I should

Let it carry me off the ground.

I wonder if the ghosts of life

From many, many years ago,

Have drifted here, so free of strife

That forever they sing to the stars and snow.

I wonder if they feel the cold,

So translucent in the night,

Or of they feel they are as old

As the forest climbing high.

--

A dead man walks beside me now,

Singing his iridescent tune,

A ripple of air, a shimmer of strands

Of gossamer feeling, shining in the moon.

The song repeats, familiar and soft,

I somehow find I know it well

The notes seem to hold me aloft

As I let the song rise to a swell.

--

My phantom companion touches my hand

With skin like spider’s web and dust,

And finally I see him stand

Beside me—a small child, that must

Just want a little company,

So lonely in the afterlife,

He wished to share his song with me,

To ease the pain of Death’s cruel knife.

But as he smiles at me, I see

That maybe Death was kind to him,

And he knows life does not suit me….

He’s handed me Death’s diadem.

--

Such a pretty thing, it shines

Pure silver in the pale moonlight,

I take it, and I feel alive….

Once on my head, the world is mine.

My body falls without a sound—

I feel light, like liquid air

And solid light compose me now—

My child is still standing there.

--

He has killed me, and he knows,

But no remorse shows on his face

As he leads me through the snow

And sings with me as I keep pace.

The chill of fear has long left me

That haunted me when I first came

To this place I thought Death’s trees

Of thorns and ghosts and all the same old

Ghost stories from long ago

About the murdered child there fell,

Who forever walks the winter snow

And sings to lead you to his hell.

--

Now I wonder as I sing,

Why had those people thought such things?

Why did they think of misery

When they heard my little child’s song ring?

I think that if a happy song

A solemn, silent human could hear

Rang in the woods, all night long,

Then Truth to them would soon appear—

We walk softly through our trees

Where both of us met our demise,

And sing our song into the breeze,

Content forever, no fear, no strife….

--

Angels in the afterlife.