They are not seen.
They are not felt.
They wander inbetween.
Where they once had dwelt.
The monks in the highland mists.
Over heather and loch equally.
They move with ease.
Surrounding unknown tourists creepily.
Like an invisible disease.
The monks in the highland mists.
In the dead of night.
Their chants can be heard.
Nobody knows the prayers they recite.
As they do not say a recognised word.
The monks in the highland mists.
I told you that they are not seen.
I admit to you I lied.
For what you witnessed travelling over the moss so green.
Were the spirits of the holy men that died.
The monks are the highland mists.
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Paul Crocker and writers in Poets and other communities.
Ribs
Since my last birthday, I’ve been thinking a lot about getting older and how much it terrifies me. My bones aging means my mom’s bones aging means my grandma’s bones aging means the dust is coming to pick someone up soon. I don’t know how prepared I am for the day that I find myself poring over old text messages with my mother, sending new ones just to feel the connection but knowing I’ll never receive another one from her again.
By Souluminosity3 days ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.