Photo by Michael Erickson

Stand here quiet beside my grave,

‘Neath shadowed pines and maples gray.

Hear my whispers beneath the stone,

Twisted round roots full grown.

A secret kept for a hundred years,

Preys upon your deepest fears.

Lay your hand upon my name,

Dripping sweet of blood unclaimed.

Let me rise with rotten bloom,

To bring forth creation’s boone.

Howl once, twice, three times more,

Calling forth forgotten lore.

Come close and listen hear me rave,

Stand here quiet by my grave.

Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.