Spirits of the Southern Plantation

How might the dead come creeping, crawling,
clawing their way out of dusty corners
where they linger unwilling to release their grasp
of a handful of sand from times gone by.

Even the old white washed plantation sits
abandoned on a hill, the black cracks of decay
bleeding through to the surface, creaking
with each rain in protests of its growing aches.

Neglected oaks have grown an old man's beard,
shuddering their overgrown arms that sprawl out,
vain attempts to remain grounded in the majesty
they once bore, the weight of it now crushing, unappreciated.

Within this canopy created cave,
unseen eyes watch from pale apparitions,
behind the black bark trunks, held at bay
by the angles that keep threadbare tires from skidding.

Pushing stuck cars out of mud filled potholes,
left as nature's trap for the wayward wanderer
who dares disturb the souls trapped
in the grip of their old masters abode.

Waiting for a chance to regain their pound of flesh
from the back that disrespects their dwelling.
Reeking of their labored tobacco harvest,
and the honey bourbon sipped upon by the posh proprietor.

Ghostly jazz permeates the shadowy corners of the house,
luring the heedless revelers just a bit further
into the gaping mouth of the abyss that swallows light,
leaving naught but their silhouette from backlit windows.

Devouring them, breathless, in the timeless magnolia
and entwining them in the new master's web.
Where they make their penance in lupine fields,
and their phantasmal groan is lost in the rolling thunder.

Whose wind shudders the ancient oak,
sways his growing beard within the breeze
as he rests his arms from the burden of his once lived majesty.
And the old plantation creeks from humid air and raindrops.