pulling strings

These roads are haunted still –
Footfalls of ghosts fill
a shifting quietness
that ungone paths echo,
hallowed by former lives.

Curled arm and finger around stone;
the white death of old bones
these specters amidst night
leave unstirred, and weep mists
through streets where eyes past sight

watch life – drawn and never
erased, heat traced within
the depths of hearted space –
cold ghosts of breath linger;
flesh forgotten embrace.

On empty roads asleep.