In the spectral confines of the graveyard, a wraith adrift,
Sheathed in a gossamer veil woven from the gauze of clouds.
An ethereal figure, solitary, tracing footprints over past lives,
Her gaze wistfully capturing every gravestone’s epitaph.

Her ghostly shadow dances upon time-weathered stone,
A silent step of sorrow and longing, softly amongst the chime of midnight bells.
In this realm of quiet, the hush of death unbroken,
She stops, a phantom moth drawn to the flicker of a name.

On her spectral knees she descends, tethered by love, unchanged by time,
Her child’s marker, a lullaby in stone, as cold and lifeless as the hands she yearns to hold.
Her voice is the wind, whispering words to the sleeping earth,
“You are as dead as I am”, echoes in the hollow silence of the night.

Her death is a shroud, hung on the skeleton of existence,
A cloak of mist, weaving through the threads of the living.
But the child’s death, an abyss, an unfillable chasm,
The end of laughter, the end of tomorrow, a symphony incomplete.

Her existence, a phantom echo, yet her child’s absence a deafening silence,
She mourns not her spectral fate, but the stolen bloom of youth.
In her death, she remains. In the child’s death, she is truly lost,
Her despair is the cold kiss of midnight, the winds soughing through branches.

When the moon ascends, a pearl in the ink-black tapestry of the sky,
Her sorrow is its light, the tears that paint the stars.
This is the haunting truth, the revenant’s lament,
That for a mother’s ghost, the child’s death is what it means to be truly dead.