Belfry Spirit

As twilight sinks into a mournful night,
Where something dark and fearful surely dwells,
The shaking flock gives in to mortal fright,
With every note that pours from out the bells.

Within those cold and rust-encrusted tones,
There lies a wrenching, heartless sort of power
That chills the mind and rattles at the bones,
As they escape that ancient belfry tower.

But something colder still awaits above,
Between the rafter's rotten, wooden beams,
Is this the thing your nightmares warned you of,
As, cowering, you prayed for sweeter dreams?

The bats around the belfry flap their wings,
And keep a rhythm mortals cannot hear,
While something there in silence sadly sings
A song that cannot pass a human ear.

A spirit of the dead patrols the boards,
That craft the withered belfry tower floor,
With longing he will cast his gazes towards
A world he cannot wander anymore.

Beyond his rail, there may as well be canyons,
So far removed is he from mortal lands.
The bats are now his only live companions,
And even they pass through his spectral hands.

A lost and writhing soul, he flies unending,
His tiny world denying what he wants,
The only ones who ever risk ascending
The tower, are those he already haunts.