Pale Ghosts March

Pale ghosts march in line down the street in broad daylight

Beyond the curb, stones fall from pediment to ruin

I watched my mother age

I watched my father’s light fade

And while putting my child to sleep

Tonight I died.

Father Abraham

I hold the knife in my hand, but I don’t understand.

Grip it by the handle,

Blade down,

Before the sacrificial slab,

Prepared to murder laughter

I hear the drums in the distance, soon the army will be here.

My hands tremble,

Sweat beads my brow.

The unworldly parade marches on

Through the crumbling walls.

The spring sun blurs my vision,

I squint to make out

What may be real,

Or what may be untouchable.

On the surface of a sphere,

Floating ever further to eternity’s edge,

Countless poles share a common center,

But something’s amiss,

It is incomplete.

I take care not to waiver

In my lukewarm lake of resolve.

Then a shadow…

Only to be heard, not to be seen,

Of a song whose outline was clear,

But whose features were hidden,

Rising above the static

Drowning out desert’s song,

Cast upon

The world is flat.

Behind every closed door

Sits a man waiting for his savior.

At the foot of every grave

Stands a man who found Him.

My top lip quivers, my knuckles are white

The blood shed on this stone

Shall be on my head.

The army’s footsteps are approaching,

Falling in time with an ethereal laughter,

The Spirit runs from the base of my neck

Down the back of my legs,

An autumn brush firing spreading,

Burning my bones.

Blooming flowers, each taking root

In ancient soil

My footsteps are fossilized.

It is clear I’ve been here before

In what form

I cannot say.

Perhaps a Romeo longing for his Juliet.

Perhaps a mother nursing innocence

Perhaps a common thief risking

Freedom to avoid slavery,

In captivity

My heart beats no more.