At the Graves Gate
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"A grave wherever found preaches a short and pithy sermon to the soul.” Nathaniel Hawthorne
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At the Grave`s Gate
On a wintry night with wild woeful winds
Howling on trees with a wilful grind,
Torrential rain splashing on window panes
And rain water gushing out through the mains,
I hastily close the back and front gates
And roll on under bed sheets, still awake
Soon, with an outage, every light goes out
Ditching me in dead darkness and in doubt
With no one in the house but my own self,
Trying to converse with my inner self
To dispel the spell of my loneliness
And usher in the feel of homeliness.
Hardly do I close my exhausted eyes
That I feel a GHOSTLY figure to rise,
Wholly garbed in GOSSAMER silken bright,
Hair shrivelled with clenching teeth milky white,
Steering towards me like a bird of prey
GROANING with a dreadful voice as it may.
Trying to call for help, my voice fails me
In the face of a ghastly enemy,
Smitten with a weltering wave of fear
I struggle to flee but fall down with tears,
“Your GRAVE is ready my friend,” says a voice
“I have come to fetch you; you have no choice.”
The ghostly hands grab me by the collar
And flies me apace as in a hauler;
GRIEF-STRICKEN, I pray the Almighty Lord
To rescue me and receive me on board,
To deliver me out of the danger,
Yet, GODFORSAKEN, I seem a stranger.
Braving the darkness, the rains and the winds
I`m hauled to the gate of the grave with a swing,
May be my respective turn to await
Maybe to rest alongside my soul mate
Until the dead-end of eternity,
In the wide expanse of immensity.
Lying at the doorstep of the grave`s gate
I ponder whether I`ve sown seeds of hate,
Whether I`ve planted seeds of love too late
What can be written in my present fate,
When power is restored, ushering light
Dispelling dreary dreams to my delight.
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