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.