The Midnight Visitor's

 

(A lone voice whispers)

Sometimes before the visitations come at night.

The shapeless shrouds walking in from misty clouds.

I smell a scent of sulfur as they appear in my sight.

Broken things, each wearing a red ring. Standing one by one until their bell I ring.

To then kneel and tell me their something.

Some speak of forgotten old queens or kings, as they wonder.

Some speak of standing still in memory's thunder.

To taste old, decayed moments that choke their inner sun.

Some dream to run to heaven to see the sights.

It's like this for me every night.

While the new world sleeps, and those from the old knock on the door to my keep.

Asking me to shine a light on their own mysteries, so their call can taste the old thrill of past victories.

That they still have a place somewhere in history.

Somewhere between the Dragon and the Holy King

It's why they say they come to me to sing.

For who wants to be a forgotten old broken thing? 

(C) Copyright John Duffy

 “The Midnight Visitors” is about being a witness and a keeper of what the world has discarded.

The visitors.

The “shapeless shrouds,” sulfur scent, mist, and red rings aren’t literal demons so much as forgotten souls, memories, ideas, and identities. 

They’re broken things—people, histories, emotions, even past selves—that were never resolved or honored.

They arrive at night because night is when the mind is unguarded.

 This is the liminal hour: between waking and dreaming, past and present, and life and death.

Where the red ring suggests wounds, guilt, shame, blood, or unfinished business—a mark that identifies them as damaged but still alive in memory.

The speaker ringing the bell reverses power. They don’t haunt him; he summons them. That frames the speaker not as a victim, but as a ritual holder, judge, priest, or poet.

Someone who gives the forgotten permission to speak.

What they confess:

Each visitor carries a fragment of their history.

Lost royalty → fallen greatness. Frozen moments → trauma and regret.

Decayed memories → time eroding meaning. Dreams of heaven → longing for redemption.

These aren’t just their stories. They’re human stories—the universal fear of being erased, of having mattered once but soon to be no longer.

The speaker’s role.

This is the emotional center of the poem.

While the “new world sleeps,” the speaker stays awake to receive the old. That makes him an archivist of the unseen.

A translator between eras.

Someone who shines a light so forgotten things can feel real again.

Where poetry itself becomes the lantern.

Dragon and Holy King.

A line that places the visitors between myth and sanctity—not villains, not saints. Just human. 

History usually remembers extremes; this poem speaks for everything in between.

The final question.

“For who wants to be a forgotten old broken thing?”

This is the quiet heartbreak of the poem. It’s not really about ghosts.

It’s about all of us and the fear that one day our story won’t be told—unless someone like the speaker listens.

Would you want to be remembered?

Salute.

Image shared under fair usage policy.