Ashes
Ashes
Ghosts of heaven do not wander
here … and there are no memorials blown at dawn or dusk. I hear the sounds in murmurs, hemlock brushing fog, life rushing over life at stumbling down the rotten porch steps pace pause to smile a little grimace of hate and malice then on
and take no arms with me. We march ahead aloud on breeze neglected, stop and eat our pottage not meat nor hear the drums our calves pressed forward locked into service not looking back and breathe.
Just breathe.
As those who’ve gone before are truly gone we who are must truly be and memories, ghosts, dance my ghosts yours everyone …
We merely pass and let those dreams be gone with who wanders then and then Banquo? Or the trees? So stands the past for ghosts of heaven do not wander here. …
