Thinly veiled blinded ghosts
parading through streets at midnight
clueless, following the stars
losing astronomy to every light.
The street lamps aren’t afraid
but only when they cannot see
that the streets and the roads shudder
with every movement
of the lifeless, marching feet.
Butterfly dreams wasting
below the wishing stars,
folded wings inside of cocoons
daring them to come out -
like children of nights when
the lonely ones trot.
Golden scepters in their hands
covered with blood,
whispering prayers to one god
they will never believe in.
To the ends of the earth
for these ghosts to lie down.
In harmony with the slave
and to his masters, the sound
of a giant sickle harvesting
the endless fields of endless ghosts.
The cold betrays their presence
to those who haven’t joined them.
For well beyond those empty eyes
and empty hearts, you will find
the broken remnants of broken men.
