Consumed by the need for an Earl Grey,
I took the short cut via the cemetery,
There I met a fair young wench,
Who turned about and said me,
“If you look down you can see Heaven,
If you look up you can see Hell”,
What uncommonly oblique words to hear,
From one little more than a girl.
Yet she just kept right on talking,
Saying things that made me think,
She must somehow be mad or worse,
Perhaps on drugs or drink?
Down in that gothic cemetery,
And perched on some ancient gravestone,
She looked all about the daunting place,
Making sure that we were alone.
That is when she whispered,
“The ghosts they must not hear,
What I’ve got to say to you,
Have you got that clear?”
Plainly I nodded in cryptic agreement,
Thinking I must escape and make my way,
That is when she spat out the words,
“All hearts are made of clay”.
So I offered her my condolences,
For any faith that she may have lost,
Yet all she could reply to me,
Was, “You don’t know the cost,
Of living every single day,
Locked inside my own head,
Hearing all the chilling voices,
Of the unholy living dead.”
I told her what she needed,
Was a form of help I could not give,
But she just stared into my eyes,
And said, “I want to live.
For I am just a metaphor,
Of all the lies of man,
I can sense you are a conjurer,
Help me if you can.”
“What’s my magic got to do with this?”
Was all that I could think to say,
Pondering all the time now,
Of a polite way to get away.
Dusk fell upon the graveyard,
The mist stole her from me,
I searched the best that I could for her,
But she was lost to infinity.
Did I ever meet that girl,
Was she ever there,
Or was she just a figment,
An epitaph for my fear.
And so I took of my leave,
Still believing on the whole,
Not in any after life for,
Magic is my living soul.