Beneath The Hollow Tree

A gloomy and spooky image evocative of the poem Beneath The Hollow Tree

Beneath the hollow tree’s dark crown,
Where twisted branches reached the sky,
A whisper rustled softly down,
From roots that mourned and never died.

The earth around was cold and still,
Where mournful spectres tended the ground,
An ancient silence dreaded to fill,
A world where lost souls were unbound.

The gnarled trunk, both wise and worn,
Held tales of curses, bittersweet,
Of dreams lost and desires forlorn,
And echoes from the roots’ deceit.

A hollow wind began to weave,
Through branches bent in sorrow’s plea,
A ghostly sigh, a spirit’s grieve,
That lingered in the twilight’s sea.

The moonlight cast a spectral glow,
Through leaves that whispered ghostly magic spells,
A realm where time was too slow to show,
And shadows danced perpetually.

In the tree’s hollow, dark and deep,
An old, forgotten grave resided,
Where phantoms in their silence wept,
And rested beneath the spectral tides.

A voice once soft now rose clear,
To beckon those who dared to tread,
A plea to listen, to draw near,
To hear the stories of the dead.

Yet those who heeded the mournful call,
May have found their fate entwined in woe,
For beneath the hollow tree’s dark fall,
The spirits of the lost did grow.

The roots stretched deep into the dark,
Where ancient sorrows intertwined,
Each tendril held a ghostly mark,
Of lives interwoven with fate’s design.

The wind’s lament was cold and stark,
A melody of loss and grief,
It sings of dreams left in the dark,
Of shadows yearning for relief.

The tree’s dark form stood still and grim,
A sentinel of endless night,
Its branches weaved a sombre hymn,
In moonlit haze and spectral light.

Beneath its boughs, the stories lay,
In whispered tales of days long past,
A haunted world where shadows sighed,
And echoes of the loss were cast.
Esther Elizabeth Racah

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