Censorship

The wind howls, a mournful, lonely sound, As a figure glides, without a trace of ground. A faceless naked ghost, a chilling sight, Moving through the shadows, in the pale moonlight. No eyes to see, no mouth to speak, A silent presence, cold and meek. It drifts and sways, a spectral gleam, A haunting vision, a chilling dream. The air grows thick, with a ghostly chill, As the faceless ghost, its purpose to fulfill. A mournful whisper, carried on the breeze, A tale of sorrow, carried on the trees. The faceless ghost, a haunting reminder, Of lives cut short, and loves that dwindle and tire. A spectral echo, of what once was bright, Now fading slowly, into the endless night.