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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #2256811
An experimental tale of a lost rider that meets a spirit in the night.

My steed and I walked a dusty trail
Among a field of brambles
The path behind was quickly lost
So onward we did ramble.

All too soon, the day turned to night;
The warming sun to moonlit chill.
The wind died down to almost nothing
When we spied a figure on the hill.

My mount noticed first of course,
Being keener of the eye.
He whinnied forth a fearful breath,
And started pulling to the side.

“Woh, ol’ girl,” I said with patience,
To calm her anxious nerves.
When I gazed beyond the reigns
Fear robbed me of my words.

Suddenly my hands went stiff.
Rendered by a chill so cold.
There standing upon the hill; a horseman,
And it was I, but old.

Sagging were my eyes and cheeks;
My body stooped and meager;
Sparse and rotted yellow teeth;
Eyes wide and red from fever.

In a moment of sudden courage
I raised my concern to he,
“What say you, daunting midnight spirit?
Am I to believe that you are me?”

Silence gripped the sky and fields.
My fearful heart did yearn.
He raised a shaking hand at I,
And his answer came in turn.

"Precious is the passing,
from the river to the sea,
A pond to mist;
A book to gist,
A leaf falling from a tree.
Is thou truly born of dust
Or is dust born of thee"

Then suddenly came a gust of wind,
As if by his decree.
Inch by inch, bone by bone
He disappeared upon the breeze.

A tremor jolted through my steed,
She reared up in surprise.
I held on tight, with eager fright
Yet struck my head upon a stone.

Rising now through shafts of light
Beaming through my bedroom door.
The subtle ticking of a clock,
Sets pace to the days I now adore.

Tick tock...
Clip clop...

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