The heart of the ghost without a soul

On a quiet summer night

you can still hear the cries

of the heart, from the ghost, without a soul

the unmistakable shrieking

of a thousand cries, creeping

from the shadows, through the cracks and the windows

from the closets and under the beds

the ghosts searches for many say

redemption, of a soul taken tragically

when the moon is shining bright

and the trees shiver with fright

if you listen, you can hear a whisper of her plight

too evil for heaven's grace

not welcomed into hell's gates

left to wander the world

for at least a million years

for the heart, from the ghost, without a soul

searches on, leaving carnage and destruction in it's wake