Haunted corridors, empty and eerie
enfolded me as I, like one mesmerized
walked into an old musty royal tomb
marble-made, marvelous by moonlight.
The white of the walls shone whiter.
The dark crevices darkened further
shadowed by the unseen presences
of the king’s men and women strolling
through the ornate corridors; the roses
and the leaves glittering red and green,
crafted and grafted into the pink marble.
The restless spirits of numerous artisans,
the skilled men that spent unnumbered years
in sun and shower, shedding blood and tears
in mute agony, gaunt, silent, still suffering
while the queen’s tomb took shape in their
immortal art, shuffled soundless in this glorified
hell like waifs, like wind-blown autumnal leaves.
Was that a vision or a delusion, I moving shoulder
to shoulder with the invisible people of a distant era?
First place winner in Sherri Gibson's Coloring the World poetry contest.