Graveyard
Beneath the moon’s cold, argent gaze I tread,
Where shadows whisper secrets long since dead,
In the graveyard’s silent, haunted gloom,
I find my solace in the midnight bloom.
A pipe of darkened ebony I clutch,
Filled with the misty, emerald touch,
A ghostly vapor curls and weaves,
Like spirits dancing among the leaves.
The tombstones leer with cracked, mossy grins,
Guarding secrets buried within their sins,
Yet here I sit, beneath the velvet sky,
Letting the smoky tendrils drift and fly.
Each puff a whisper of forgotten past,
A fleeting dream that cannot last,
In this gothic sanctuary of decay,
I chase the night’s melancholic sway.
The scent of herbs, both bitter and sweet,
Mingles with the cold, eternal sleet,
A ritual in the shadow’s keep,
Where memories stir and spirits weep.
So in the graveyard’s ghostly embrace,
I find a fleeting, sacred space,
Where life and death entwine, obscure
A smoky prayer, dark and pure.
