Emily Brontë

I lingered round them under that benign sky;

watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells,

listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass,

and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers

for the sleepers in that quiet earth.

Who’s that digging at my grave?

So the story goes.

Published by keechballard

Keech Ballard is a writer of speculative fiction, self-help books, and poetry, who lives in Las Vegas.

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