on nights spirits fail

reaper in the collapsing house

hungry

eager to drink from the tears of mortals

on nights wailers wail

misery grinning at the living

fury

in blood puddles of slaughtered animals

on nights ghosts travel

I know the abode of wandering souls

stray

where wanderings seem unceasing

do the dead walk in gallantry?

deifying their favorite places on earth?

sadly

gazing longingly at rotten leftovers

do spirits become dust storms?

or kicked up by unbeaten winds?

fiery

or resting on infamous folks’ souls

do wraiths sit around cold, dead flames?

with feet on smoldering ashes

drowsy

twiddling sore thumbs for renascence

maybe

and the living who saw the spirits were mystified.

specters wait: convoyed with burning fire

scuffing in a never ending line

spooky

seeking unimaginable rest