Lost in time
The bones of our ancestors
Covered in myths
That run on willowy legs
Old spirits growl, I hear them not
I hear birds singing, the hum of summer
Empty footsteps tracking my progress
I pray they never catch up to me
I say the prayer three times
The third is the charm
To keep away the blood, 
trickling down the walls
The glum faces of my neighbours 
that haunt my dreams
I run after the old, the magic of myth
The stories that keep my blood pumping…

©AnitaDawes2022