The moonlight motes give rise to suppositions
As the graveyard shifts with ghostly apparitions
And there's a running man and he's running scared
For he is a witness, who has observed and heard
He was alone with silence, but whispered words were spoken
As those once at rest slipped into a mind exposed and broken
And in an open journal his scribing made it grimly clear
That he could not be there, for he had succumbed to fear
For there are those who will rise and escape the grave
To haunt the receptive with their 'in situ' waived
They're gossamer threads that choose to wander
Like moths to flames they seek the light's responder
On his own, with them, in a desolate moonlit building
He felt their oppressive presence, as his will was wilting
Goosebumps and anonymous footfalls is when he knew
Before a whispered breath, 'we're always close to you'
He's running fast, but he's a haunted man
And they'll search to find him, wherever they can
He'll never escape as his rationality sifts
For in the moonlight motes the graveyard shifts
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