on nights spirits fail
reaper in the collapsing house
eager to drink from the tears of mortals
on nights wailers wail
misery grinning at the living
in blood puddles of slaughtered animals
on nights ghosts travel
I know the abode of wandering souls
where wanderings seem unceasing
do the dead walk in gallantry?
deifying their favorite places on earth?
gazing longingly at rotten leftovers
do spirits become dust storms?
or kicked up by unbeaten winds?
or resting on infamous folks’ souls
do wraiths sit around cold, dead flames?
with feet on smoldering ashes
twiddling sore thumbs for renascence
and the living who saw the spirits were mystified.
specters wait: convoyed with burning fire
scuffing in a never ending line
seeking unimaginable rest