Speak of The Dead

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

In the darkened
Cloak of night
I hear their voices
Speaking.
They gather in a halo
Around my bed
As if healing
Me
From the infirmity of
Living.
In the blackness
They graze my face
With lifeless hands
Of jealousy
Five points
Of contact
Where the tips
Of forgotten fingers
Linger
Turn numb and cold
Against the touch of the
Ethereal presence
Which haunts me.
Some nights,
They quiet and leave
And I return to sleep.
Others,
They stay and start to
Speak.
And with their words,
My heartbeat begins to
Increase.
I curl my self up
Under pale blue sheets
With a quilt to protect me
I pray for sleep.
I have heard
Their stories,
In hushed tones
They speak
With fear,
Murmuring
Tales in my ear
They tell not
How they died
But of the passion
That was their lives
They say simple things
Words from souls
Keening for life.
Of food and
Warmth
The beat of a heart.
Some nights their
Longing
Tortures me too much
I force my self to sit upright,
And with trembling
Hands,
To turn on the
Light.
There is a disembodied
Giggle of a small girl
“You’re It!”
Then I quickly
Flip the switch
The light beats
The dark away
And hems of
Shadows
Flee the
Light,
Voices fading,
The Dead have
Walked tonight.
Faces shielded
By my
Not wanting to see.
By my not wanting to
Believe the
Dead have
Walked tonight.