Phantoms

Landscape moans it guarded secrets

buried under age's sands,

of messages scrawled in creation's diary,

stuffed into a scenic mattress,

wind carrying the muffled sounds

of ancient harps that are sleeping,

their notes resonating in stone, sky and sand,

they call in ghostly soliloquy,

phantoms that etched life

with melodies of light now faded,

energy of their essence

always lingering as Deja vue auras.

Incense from their vibrations

becomes a puppeteer of muse's strings,

they pull upon the fingers

that sculpt and craft their faces

hiding in time's mirror,

apparitions of breaths

tapping on the mind's shoulder,

creating the feeling of being watched

whenever hands obey the tug unseen,

unveiling the specters within, spent and vented,

until they possess the eyes of those

who are witnessed to the gems expressed,

always nagged by sense of being

stalked and never alone

life becomes a gravedigger's plight,

ever excavating the corpses of invention.