Edinburgh Castle, Scotland — Ghostly Marches
by Dawg
Stone above stone, an iron crown carved from centuries of war,
Edinburgh Castle watches, its battlements bleeding folklore.
Mist snakes the esplanade–cold as a promise, sharp as regret,
shadows flicker under the gate, the dead not finished yet.
Night splits on the drawbridge, drums thunder in headless defiance,
ancient phantoms assemble, ghosts locked in spectral alliance.
Under vaults stained with secrets, a bone-pale drummer walks alone,
beating out the memories no living king can own.
Echoes march in cadence, across the hollowed keep,
the drummer’s rhythm, guttural, keeps old traumas from sleep.
Wind howls through the murder holes, voice of the vengeful gone,
ghosts of traitors, prisoners, soldiers–none at peace, not one.
A spectral hound with glowing eyes stalks the battered yard,
its howl tears the dark, the night’s a graveyard charred.
In dungeons and catacombs, past hope and living breath,
brave hearts and broken lie entombed, whispering of death.
Chains rattle on the spiral stair, swords clang in the mist,
bloody banners rot in silence, past glories never kissed.
The chapel murmurs hymns for men who died on fields unseen,
battles carved into the marrow of every haunted queen.
Beneath the castle’s shadow, the air is thick with fear,
cold hands brush your shoulders, something always near.
Some nights, in the torchlight, you’ll catch a fleeting trace–
a drummer missing his head, still searching for his place.
Edinburgh’s ramparts shudder with every retold fight,
phantoms parade through the black Scottish night.
You leave with goosebumps, shivering under Scotland’s moon,
every echo in your ear a warning: you left too soon.
Edinburgh Castle keeps its dead, their tragedies retold,
a fortress, a tomb, a memory–stone, shadow, and cold.