The Passage

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

3 responses to “The Passage”

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