by David S. Smith
March 20, 2004
The fog crawls out of Murder Creek.
Across the evening, a pale shroud sweeps,
Up the muddy banks, pass the rails on Leed,
A hoary delta in the empty streets.
The Spanish moss in the Cypress trees,
And the glossy pages of magnolia leaves,
Haunting reminders of lost chivalry,
Concealed in the haze of a shattered scheme.
Like phantoms of a clandestine creed
Hidden beneath their ghostly sheets,
It covers the faces of corruption and greed
In the murky phrases of a legacy.
And the shadows of night humbly concede
Behind shallow smiles of civility.
Up condescending paths, they quietly recede
To steal away where the darkness breed.
Unspoken truths, hushed mysteries
In the dirty waters of Murder steeped.
And bearers listed now deceased,
Rotting remnants of the ill-conceived.
But, in morning light the fog will flee
Like fading dreams of a troubled sleep.
The clouded memory of deeds unseen,
The fog returns to Murder Creek.
About the Author:
David Smith is a damnyankee in Brewton, Alabama.
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