Blend

 

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.