The Forsaken’s Cry

Introduction: Not all ghosts are seen. Some linger in the echoes of forgotten words and shattered dreams. This poem speaks of restless souls who seek justice, love, or simply the peace they were denied or do they actually?

At three, when midnight’s chime bleeds into gloom,
An ancient graveyard stirs beneath a spectral sky—
Stone sentinels whisper secrets of impending doom,
While rustling leaves murmur where lost voices lie. 

A lone wanderer treads the cracked, mossed way,
A skeptic whose heart beats with cold disdain;
Yet beneath the pallid moon’s silent display,
Shifting shapes in the darkness begin to reign. 

They dance like ink spilled on midnight’s page,
Formless specters weaving through the heavy air—
Each a wraith from an unremembered age,
Their sorrow and malice entwined in despair. 

In the hushed corridors of forgotten stone,
Their murmurs rise—a broken, mournful hymn;
A promise of vengeance in each forlorn tone,
Entreating justice for wounds grown dim. 

The wanderer listens, his soul caught unaware,
Bound by the cadence of their tragic plea;
In that echo of grief, a resolve forms there,
To avenge each spirit lost to cruel decree. 

Each night he returns beneath the haunted skies,
Tracking the cursed hand that wrought each pain;
Yet with every act where dark retribution lies,
A ghostly fragment of himself is claimed again.

Flesh and memory slowly fade like dusk’s last light,
As unseen fingers pluck him piece by piece;
He lures the guilty with a guise of human might,
Unwittingly dancing with the force that will never cease. 

In his quest for justice, he forges bonds with the living,
Guiding them to that morbid, enchanted ground;
But it is the specters—malevolent and unforgiving—
Who manipulates the strings where his soul is bound. 

Reflections betray him in every silvery glass,
For his image dissolves into a void of night;
A phantom fading where time and form amass,
A self unraveled by the curse of his own plight. 

At last, his debts to the dead are fully paid,
And he seeks his kin in a world grown stark and bare;
But his presence, a whisper in the twilight’s shade,
Evokes only emptiness and a lingering despair. 

In the mirror’s face, no familiar eyes remain,
Only a hollow void where his essence once shone;
The truth descends like a slow, relentless rain—
He’s a phantom forged in a realm overthrown. 

A final pilgrimage leads him to the resting ground,
Where amid the silent tombs his own corpse lies;
A relic of a self that can no longer be found,
Beneath the mournful skies and watchful, ghostly eyes. 

Around the shattered remains, sinister laughter rings,
The spirits reveling in his tragic, eerie fall;
Their mirth, a chorus of the darkness that clings,
Mocking the avenger who never truly was at all.

In the perpetual gloom where midnight secrets sigh,
A final echo of a shattered self now roams untamed;
A spectral warning to the living beneath the starless sky—
That vengeance, like the endless night, leaves every soul unclaimed. 

Now, the graveyard hums a dirge of endless night,
Each whisper, a reminder of a soul unmade;
A cautionary tale woven in the absence of light,
Where the cost of vengeance leaves only shadows in its wake. 

💭 Reflection: Some voices refuse to fade, even after death. This poem reflects on those whose stories remain untold. 💬 Do you believe the past leaves echoes in the present? Share your thoughts in the comments. 📌 Follow for more