A ghost, a young woman, maybe 19, in a plain nightdress, out in the woods, there by the clear and little creek.
At night I follow her among the cathedral trees, on the damp moist earth, never sacred to speak.
By that clear and little creek, the stars hidden, the ritual unfurling till she finds that final, shallow grave.
Young woman taken to death, thrown away like a beer can in a ditch. Loved and loving, no one came to save.
Fades where her bones were, though a true burial was given, the pain holds her here.
I sit beside that grave until morning, keeping light and warmth close by, as echoes of evil never disappear.
faithlesspaladin 