Specters fleeting in quests for adventure
Glisten down the street,
Their emotional status identified
By the pattering of their feet.
Some stride heavy, others soft
Enough to follow in the atmosphere,
Many search throughout the night
While wondering what they\'re doing there.
Mixing paint on a pallete to adjust the color
That\'s longing for the blank,
Such these restless ghosts peruse
To sort the honest, from the fake.
Their cheer has no real direction,
No compass to align its course,
It spreads near, that is all,
Misplaced, yet endorsed.
If there\'s a difference made by ancient lamps
Or by the glee of wind in the form of drift,
The shuffling blends together again
Until all is quiet, in the end.
Flickering orbs alight the path
To make beheld the shroud;
Day\'s shriveled carcass in full bloom
Its hunger yet unavowed,
And despite the warmth upon my back
I refuse to turn around.