The Forgotten Dead

In the quiet of the midnight hour,

When the moon hangs pale and thin,

The air grows cold, the shadows lour,

And the whispers softly begin.

A creak of wood, a fleeting sigh,

The echo of a life gone by.

Invisible hands brush through your hair,

A spectral touch, a ghostly stare.

Oh, the veil is thin, the world’s grown near,

The dead are here, their voices clear.

They dance in the dark, where mortals tread,

The restless hearts of the forgotten dead.

Beneath the ground, where roots entwine,

Lies the sorrow of forgotten time.

The nameless graves, the lost, the cold,

Their stories fade but never grow old.

A child’s laugh, a widow’s weep,

The lullabies sung in eternal sleep.

A flicker of light, a shadow that lingers,

A melody plucked by unseen fingers.

Oh, the veil is thin, the world’s grown near,

The dead are here, their voices clear.

They dance in the dark, where mortals tread,

The restless hearts of the forgotten dead.

Candles flicker in the gale,

Drawing forth the specter’s tale.

A haunting song from lips unseen,

Of love, of loss, and what might have been.

The spirits call, a mournful plea,

From oceans deep to forest tree.

“Remember us,” they softly cry,

“For in your hearts, we never die.”

Oh, the veil is thin, the world’s grown near,

The dead are here, their voices clear.

They dance in the dark, where mortals tread,

The restless hearts of the forgotten dead.

So heed the whispers, the ghostly song,

The veil is weak, but life moves on.

For every step, a shadow follows,

In haunted dreams and moonlit hollows.