Whispers in the Fog

Whispers in the Fog

The air is thick, the moon is low,

A bitter wind begins to blow.

Through hollow trees and hollow bones,

A nameless chorus softly moans.

They drift beyond where lanterns gleam,

Thin as breath and lost in dream.

No footsteps mark the frozen ground,

No echoes rise, no beating sound.

A house stands crooked, old and gray,

Its door agape, its walls decay.

Yet something lingers, cold and deep,

Where restless voices never sleep.

They watch, they wait, they never tire,

Their whispers curling in the mire.

A hand unseen, a fleeting chill,

A shadow bent to match no will.

And should you walk this path alone,

They’ll trace your steps with fleshless tone.

A murmur here, a sighing there—

Until you breathe their ashen air.

Then night will stretch, the stars will drown,

Your name forgotten, dragged down, down.

No morning comes, Just spirits, wandering in fog.