The Haunted Church and Graves

The Haunted Church and Graves

The church stands still after midnight,

stone holding breath like a secret kept.

Windows stare without offering answers,

the door forgets why it was ever opened.

The graveyard stirs beneath patient soil,

names pressing up through years of quiet.

They rise unsure of what has changed,

only knowing they are no longer sleeping.

Some straighten clothes worn by memory,

others whisper apologies to the dark.

They gather near the church steps,

waiting to be called back inside.

They believe freedom lives behind the door,

that a bell will explain everything at once.

They do not know the weight has lifted,

they do not feel the chains already gone.

Hands reach for handles that no longer matter,

fingers pass through wood and each other.

Confusion moves among them like fog,

thick with the habit of being held.

The church offers silence as its final sermon,

stone refusing to claim them again.

Morning will not see them standing there,

light never asks the dead to stay.

They wait for permission that will not come,

calling it mercy, calling it release.

Not one of them realises the truth,

they were already let out and free,

drifting past walls and windows,

lighter than memory, unclaimed by sorrow,

walking into a quiet they had always known.

Shadows trail behind, soft and patient,

whispering the names they forgot to say.

Wind moves through hands like a greeting,

and for the first time, no one is alone.

The earth exhales, the church sighs,

and they vanish into the space between,

the haunted and the living,

forever untouchable, forever free.