My Life In Word

Beneath the Priory Lot

Beneath the Priory’s parking stone,
Something stirs where roots have grown.
No grave is marked, no bell is rung,
Yet midnight speaks in an ancient tongue.
The asphalt cracks when the moon hangs low,
And pale hands rise from the earth below.
Some say a monk was buried there—
Still whispering curses into the air.
So park with care when daylight’s gone,
For something beneath you waits till dawn.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by benjamin lehman on Unsplash

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