The Grave

His brown eyes haunt me,
telling vague stories,
across countless ages.

I can not see,
his darkness pressing around me,
filling the emptiness,
in a cold dream.

Haunting,
his voice follows,
through endless dampness,
drawing ghosts,
in his shivering wake.

Glaring through me,
he drifts,
to my soul,
passed by in life,
he takes me to his grave.

© 1998, Christie Benson

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