Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

The Anger of The Dead

Are they haunted by

our deaths?

As we stand,

side by side,

surely they feel

the pressure

of all our

ghostly bodies.

We manage,

with all our might

and force,

thousands pressed

together,

a dripping sound,

that echoes

as if in a hall

behind their heads.

One looks up and seems to

wonder,

then returns to

the attentions

of the others.

And we’re left

to drip,

slowly,

drop by drop

in silence.

 

Shadow Spirit

I scare you,

you said.

Trembling,

but hiding it.

“I scare a lot

of people,”

I whispered,

nodding softly.

But, is it a

reflection of you

that frightens?

Like a mirror?

Or, is it the reason,

the voice,

the message,

the answer,

the future?

“I never knew a

voice could be

in my head,

and from you,

at the same time,”

you said.

“Then whose voice is it?”

I asked.

“Who are you again?”

you asked.

“I am you,” I answered.

“I am you.”

Kin

It is impossible to know

anything about you.

So I make it up

in my head.

So many things

you’ve said,

in my imaginings,

undaunted by your silence,

you speak volumes

to me.

Endlessly parading,

dream-like,

I know you better,

then you know yourself,

you told me once.

I laughed,

embarrassed.

I study you,

holding you in my hands,

your black and white image,

forever young,

Forever bold,

forever mine.

The Limnu

Unbidden, they come.

Great hoards of them,

Snickering,

or whispering.

Desert sounds,

like huge spiders

walking on dry leaves,

or snake skin scrapping

endlessly over scorched sand.

Only it is voices,

not sounds.

I hear them,

effortlessly,

though I do not

want to.

So I turn towards

the origin

of the apparently

silent rabble,

for not everyone

can hear them.

I smile at them,

unexpectedly,

and they are

quieted.

They are not used

to people

not being frightened.

So I snicker at them,

and go about

my work.