But what if all you know are ghosts,

too sad and drear to cry?

Floating in their sheety flocks,

too lonesome yet to die?

Wandering through the countryside

and into town at night

to be alone in crowded haunts,

to drink and stare and fight.

The ghosts away on broken arms,

their skin all dried and cracked,

fly themselves home, alone again,

to sleep in broken flats.

And what if all you’ve loved are these

strange phantoms still ungraved?

Do you choose to let them go,

unfriended and unsaved?

Or do you join their sallow ranks,

beyond the touch of sun,

to join in their solemnity–

the hollowness of one.


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