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Pictures and a poem for Halloween
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oi-@msn.com
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Oct 20, 2007 20:07 PDT
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Breeze In The Boneyard
In the dread of night when most are dead asleep,
Stars gleam like crystals as shadows start to creep.
Haze cloaks the moon like a shade upon a lamp.
Sole spectator watching is a skinny little tramp.
His given name is Charlie, but most know him as Breeze.
And he rode the rails often, living life as he pleased.
Now Breeze is on foot at night, two days from track at best.
He spies a nearby boneyard and decides to take a rest.
Old Breeze jumps the gate and searches for a patch,
Fumbles in the dark, makes way by single match.
Finds a nice soft plot near to a lonely grave,
He lays out his bedroll, confident and brave.
Breeze stretches out next to the grave lights up his old stogie.
With the match reads the headstone and says, "Just some old Fogey."
He lies back to relax and hopes not to be caught in fear.
But the tramp finds this hard to do with death so freaking near.
Wishes he had gone to town to spend the night,
As this boneyard begins to stir in him a fright.
Suddenly, in that grim place he thought he heard
From the grave next to him, grumbling like a word.
In the creepy night air the grumble grew into a moan.
The old Breeze clearly heard a name that chilled him to the bone.
With that name he heard other words that really frightened him.
Because the message he understood was horribly grim.
"Good Evening Charlie, so glad you did arrive.",
Quote the voice from the grave, as if it were alive.
As if to jump from his skin, Breeze leapt to his feet,
Ready to vacate the boneyard for the nearest street.
As if frozen in a glacier, or stuck fast by a sludge,
Try as he might in his heightened fear, old Breeze could not budge.
Desperately he shouts; "Who are you, how'd you know my Name?!"
"Why, I am you." moans the voice, nearly driving him insane.
Sobbing with fear, he asks; "How can I be dead?"
By the grave came the answer, "From the life you've led."
Breeze broke down hysterical falling to his knees,
His lament chorused by the creaking of the trees.
Dawn crept over the boneyard as a thief stealing the night.
Lost are the moon and crystal stars to the flooding light.
Lying next to a lonely grave is the body of a tramp.
Who sadly chose this gloomy place as his final camp.
And that grave headstone reads: HERE LIES CHARLIE BREEZE
A HOBOIN' MAN WHO LIVED LIFE AS HE PLEASED
Beware boneyards, when you're a solitary case.
You may find it to be your final resting place.
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