The Ghost of The Fort

The summer night lay still before me,
Not one icy finger did creep its way in
For Death had built its fort, grim.

The Moon shone bright upon the Earth,
Piercing through the veneer of innocence
That hides the sins and folly of Man.

And that’s when I saw him –
The Ghost of the Fort.
Rifle in hand, he was back,
Back to where he had taken his last stand.

‘Oh! Of what terrors do you wail?
Of what long-forgotten sorrows?’
I mused, unable to shift my gaze
From that shining pool of darkness.

When, before my very eyes, the ghost began to moan.
Tales of soldiers eons ago
Fighting, fighting for their lives.
Tales of lovers waiting at home,
Waiting for one never to return.
Tales of the trenches, dirty and dark,
Dark as the eyes of the Pet
Who waits patiently for a Master long gone.

He wailed about the folly of Man,
Of sights fettered by chains of sorrow,
Never to be released from their graves.

And then, as sudden as he had come,
He disappeared and never did return.

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