The Specter's Toll

Beneath the moon’s unholy gleam,

Where shadows writhe and lost souls scream,

There walks a shade with hollow breath,

A whisper spun from silent death.

—

The ivy coils ‘round tombstones bare,

Like fingers frail in frozen air.

A chapel bell, though cracked and worn,

Chimes thrice—its knell a wretched thorn.

—

Upon the threshold, dark and wide,

A figure waits, eyes cold, star-dyed.

A widow’s veil, a mourner’s shroud,

Drifts gently from the grieving cloud.

—

She speaks no words, yet all can hear—

A voice like wind, so thin, severe.

It calls my name, yet none are near;

I dare not move, entranced by fear.

—

“O, tell me, shade! What curse ye bear?

What fate hath bound thee to despair?”

She lifts her hand—so pale, so slight,

And draws me forth into the night.

—

Now none recall where I have gone,

My grave unmarked, my name withdrawn.

Yet when the midnight gales take hold,

They hear my wail—the specter’s toll.

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Author’s Note:

The Specter’s Toll was born from my fascination with the lingering presence of the forgotten and the chilling weight of the unknown. This poem explores the thin veil between the living and the dead, where a lost soul is drawn into the abyss, erased from memory yet eternally bound to the echoes of midnight winds. The imagery of the graveyard, the mournful chapel bell, and the spectral figure clad in a widow’s veil evoke a sense of inevitable fate—one that whispers through the ages.

In crafting this piece, I wanted to capture the essence of ghostly lament, the feeling of being called into darkness by something unseen yet inescapable. The rhyme and meter mirror the tolling of a bell—steady, relentless, and foreboding. It is a reflection on loss, remembrance, and the haunting question: What happens to those who vanish from history?