The Necropolis

The bawl of phantoms

Get wind of passers-by.

They fancy that deceased

Shadow them to the end.

Rustling of leaves

In the unearthly night.

Moonlight radiating on the tombs

Fantasized them being pearly bright.

Shivers up the spine create a dread about the future that lies.

The flame smothers

With no anticipation of luminescence.