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


a dripping sound,

that echoes

as if in a hall

behind their heads.

One looks up and seems to


then returns to

the attentions

of the others.

And we’re left

to drip,


drop by drop

in silence.


Shadow Spirit

I scare you,

you said.


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.”

Sleepless Nights

It soothes me,

music of the dead night sky,

it is silent,

punctuated by the soft, silver


so soft as to mimic the silence

that it ripples,

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

But you,

and me.

We stood staring,

eyes begging for


but nothing came,

just a strain

for the moon

that failed,

burned out and broken,

like the promises.

We whispered,

wondered where the stars had gone,

Where did they go,

when they died?

you’d said.

Is there a heaven for stars?

you’d said.

But all I could do was

shake my head,

and my tears fell

into darkness,

like little stars


I remember how

my eyes could see,

colors bolder then

we could ever be,

I think there is vision,

if only there is light.

But no one noticed when the

lights went out.

No one noticed when the

lights went out.

But you,

and me.


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,


I know you better,

then you know yourself,

you told me once.

I laughed,


I study you,

holding you in my hands,

your black and white image,

forever young,

Forever bold,

forever mine.


How small I am,

as the great ships move,

hulking past,

their dulled metal would sound

like a scrape on stone,

if it spoke.

Huge shapes that erase the stars

from the sky,

eclipsed by the stench

of the death

that waits.

Why they eat worlds,

I do not know.

They cannot grow any larger,


They try.

These ships are not

even alive


Nobody dares

to tell them.

These ships sail

upon the barren sands,

Still thinking they are

at sea.

And the echoes of the

songs of whales,

Still ring.


They ring.

Winter Night

The white sands,


yielding to my footsteps,

a crisp crunch,

water sand,

it wraps wispy hands

around my feet,

as I scatter across it,

hurrying away from

its grasp.

To falter is to

become locked

in time,

a stiff momento.

And as I pass through,

the winds,

my sisters,

sweep away my footprints,

as if I was never there,

I pass, unseen,


or so the winds


as they clean

my memory from

the frigid moon shine,

built from tiny stars.