A Throng of whispers long and sharp
Calms with thorns and rhyme
Loss the only promise made
To pass the weighted time
Never-mind the muted bones
Abandoned on the road
A holy proof of purpose
A threat to gently goad
Foggy songs the specters sing
Of all that's gone to rust
Cold guilt for old failure
Dead love and dreams of dust
Blood and need and suicide
Sing louder down the way
Now wake up from your sleeping
Or join the ghosts in clay
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Comments1
Loss is the only promise made, well stated. Quite a litany of memorable, frightful images. The more I reread this one the more I like it. I might add that it has an almost playful silliness just below the surface, like that choir of specters chanting foggy songs... Happy All Souls' Day I guess, or as we call it down here in South Texas, El Dia de los Muertos.
Thank you so much. Day of the dead indeed.
: )
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