Whispers of the Night

I mimicked for my own delight, the haunting whispers of the night.

Laughing softly to myself, I played the part of ghostly stealth.

And, as my amusement carried, echoes turned more varied, harried,

Echoes which I did not cast, whispered from the spectral past;

Hints of a life now long outlasted, words from lips of souls departed.

 

With curious brow and deathly heart, I ventured towards the phantom art;

The chilling whispers, cold and strange, seemed to tell a tale of change.

Of a man once full of pride, whose voice echoed far and wide,

A playful man, lost to time, whose spirit now in limbo climbs,

Who mimicked ghosts for his delight, but joined them in eternal night.

 

“I am no ghost,” I chuckled low, as my own voice began to echo,

Yet, a strange unease did grow, as my reflection failed to show.

In mirrors hung on faded walls, where once my form stood proud and tall,

No image stared back at me, from the reflective glass, empty;

This jest, it seemed, had turned quite real, a truth I could no longer feel.

 

The echoes, whispers, cries, were not mere pranks to my surprise,

But echoes of a time passed on, when life was there, now is gone.

In playful jest and merry trick, to the ghostly realm, I had slipped—

I, who laughed in ghostly guise, was now a phantom in human eyes,

In spectral form, forever to roam, within the mansion, my eternal home.