What to do there: Create a map of the cemetery as you walk through it. Approach it as if it were a town or a village. Write about what goes on underground. Explore the past (the dead), the present (nature), and the future (this place in 100 years time). Start with the word “dead” and end your piece with the word “life” (or the opposite way round).

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Dead.

 

Having played these haunted nightmares, escaping the world so

slightly,

 

The moon is full, the wolves emerging, the airs wicks dryly.

 

The beings that walked on this Earth from before, now cry in their

graves with guilt,

 

Unheard by man, we put our bouquets in the honor of death but

quickly it starts to wilt.

 

Eerily, walking along the rusting graves, somehow in a haunting sense

they want to grasp something with their hands,

 

The crooks of the trees and dying leaves call to the aching lands.

 

Seeing an image appear at a grave,  with a glimpse of a memory at

sight,

 

Inexplicably, turning away, throwing myself forward, running in

fright.

 

The more I ran my arms and legs felt heavy, a creature dragging me

into its pit of hell,

 

Sharp fingers clutching at my ribs, surrounded by its putrid smell.

 

Somehow, I had freed myself from the monster lurking in the

shadows,

 

The fog had sprung in the dark, taunting me with the caws of the

unseen black crows.

 

“Ghost town”, are the words that cross all over these crumbles walls,

 

It was the poor souls that lost the battle and had taken their fall.

 

Black hearses sweep across graves in stoned marble and creep with

unsettling silence,

 

The future’s voice somehow croaks, “chaos” and weeps again to

the world’s unruly defiance.

 

You can sense the ground shaking, the creature’s awakening.

 

Dancing around with their nerving and skeletal feet,

 

They prance around in a circle, creating their own rhythm and

beat.

 

The graveyard is torn, neglected, never visited by a being but only once,

 

If the skeletons can thrive underground, then we guess we haven’t

known for months.

Rotting moss and lichen, mark their territories over these

tombstones,

 

The graveyard echoes with the clattering and rustling of the

skeleton’s bones.

 

If the bodies of the dead are cast away in coffins and dug to the

ground,

 

Then the poor souls walk in the mists with despair and an untold

magic bound.

 

You understand why these voices call to you, in their moments of

strife.

 

Hunger feeds themselves and reaches for…

 

Your Life.