Dark Spirits Walking The Earth

Dark Spirits Walking The Earth

They walk beside us with borrowed faces,

eyes steady, holding centuries in their calm.

Not ghosts, not myths, not things we summon,

they move like memory through crowded streets.

You pass them in shops, in queues, at crossings,

their breath warm, their hands entirely real.

They carry old weather beneath their skin,

storms that learned patience long ago.

Some wear kindness like a well-used coat,

others speak softly, never raising a sound.

They have seen empires fold into dust,

and still they wait, because time obeys them.

Their footsteps do not echo or announce,

they do not ask to be believed or named.

The earth remembers them without language,

roots bending slightly as they pass below.

Once, they were worshipped, feared, or followed,

now they blend into the ordinary day.

Power learned silence to survive the ages,

and silence became their sharpest strength.

They watch how we hurry, how we forget,

how we trade wonder for smaller things.

Sometimes their eyes linger on our hands,

as if measuring what we might still become.

When the world trembles without knowing why,

when sleep feels watched, though nothing is there.

It is them, moving closer to the surface,

checking the balance, counting what remains.

They do not come to save or to punish,

only to witness what humans choose to be.

Dark spirits walking the earth beside us,

patient as stone, awake in borrowed skin.