After flame
Marshal York // West Jessamine County
A folded sheet of satin
drifts through the air
doubling over itself,
dancing on the wind
until a gust carries the signal;
a harbinger of scent,
the serenity of chaos.
Born of flame and fuel,
the pale gray phantom haunts the room
circumnavigating its host -
lingering
long after its parent has passed,
mourning its own creation.
Seeping sleepily through the cracks
and the pours,
the bitter aroma rests in the foundation,
it’s even in the dirt
long since it dispersed,
perhaps out of a window, or perhaps
through the vents,
its presence still lurks
even after
the flame.
It settles…
itself clinging to the ceiling
and the walls,
blanketing the floors
as it creeps down the halls,
this particle fog hangs from the
wallpaper, permanently
A resident now, no longer
a ghost.
At a glance
They come and go
Their headlights glaring on my windshield
Streaming off into the night, bouncing
Particles dancing on my glasses
Soon appearing as glint in my eye
Rising quickly and then vanishing
Into the abyss
I blink goodbye
They come and go
Without faces or names
We pass without a greeting
Without a glimpse into each other's lives
Without a nod, they drive
Their souls a far-cry from my own
Lonely and distant, blazing
Past my peripheral and into the abyss
They come and go
Perhaps towards tragedy, or
Perhaps towards doom
Unknowing what lay in the black
Windows down, the cool air chills their face
The piper's breath pulls them forward
Luring then, over the horizon and
Into the abyss
They come and go
Their vessel veering, veering, veering
Tilting almost, rolling aimlessly
They drive past, staring blankly into the night
Their eyes glossy and windows fogged
Rolling, rolling into the abyss
I can feel their terror
I can hear them screaming behind me
Below the night
The moon hangs presently above my head
Framed by wisps of clouds, nailed
Amongst the stars
On God’s wallpaper
And as I shuffle through this night
As I have many nights before,
I imagine I have many things to tell
For the passing of a night can reveal many things
Such as the crickets quiet chatter
As they chirp gossip to one and other,
Only to hop away when approached
To take their tales to dimmer air
Where their words shall fall
On less telling ears
Or the bags that tumble tentatively in the street
Guiding the wind in the direction they wish to go
Stopping,
at times to admire the view of a porch light
Or, maybe, to linger there, under the luminance
And catch their breath
And then with a gust take off again
Only once they’re satisfied
Sometimes, I even hear the houses creek
Settling deeper into their roots
Those sleeping giants with doors for mouths
Peering through their frosted eyes
They speak to me
Ever so faintly
Happy to have a friend
And in these nights I’m happy to have a friend, too
A walk home can become so lonesome
With only a neon scream to illuminate my breath and
Guide my way home
One becomes thankful for the crickets
Hopeful for the bags
And grateful for the houses