Savannah, Georgia — Haunted City
by Dawg
Cobblestones clutch stories, swallowing centuries whole,
each groove in the mossy street carved by sorrow’s toll.
Spanish moss droops from branches, veiling secrets, old and wise,
where Bonaventure’s angels mourn with rain in hollowed eyes.
Every house leans in whisper, shutters groaning with regret,
red brick sweats the legend of debts not settled yet.
Night breathes heavy in Savannah, perfumed with despair,
the living walk with caution–ghosts are everywhere.
Lanterns flicker hazy, painting gold on ancient walls,
the air tastes of jasmine, blood, and unanswered calls.
Spectral hands embroider dusk with longing and dismay,
echoes swirling in the squares where broken soldiers lay.
Bonaventure Cemetery aches beneath its canopies of grief,
names carved into marble worn down like belief.
Ghosts linger at the mausoleums, lips mouthing names,
mourning all the children, the slaves, the unclaimed.
Darkness weaves through alleys, thick as southern wine,
every shadow knows the script, rehearsed across time.
Beneath the ivy’s tangle, beneath each crooked stair,
you feel the weight of memory, you taste the thickness of the air.
Children’s voices echo, a lullaby gone wrong,
footsteps on old floorboards, a half-remembered song.
Somewhere near Forsyth Park, shadows bend and bow,
saluting the processions of the then and the now.
When dawn crawls in reluctant, dragging mist through every street,
the city yawns in silence, never ready to retreat.
The dead keep their appointments; the living heed the code–
Savannah’s past is present, alive on every road.
Savannah, haunted darling, in your shadows we confess:
the living walk in mystery, and the dead will never rest.