Ghost of Limbs

Like streetlights past midnight



Just go softly

Just move slowly

There's no one else around, but you never really know 

What bumps in the night

They say there's a place for old longings when the strings are cut

By outside forces beyond a dreamer's consent

They tumble back like small parading parasites

Gelatinous thoughts that have no foot of bearings, no point to anchor, but low

the thought still sits

like the lifeless still living

Like the heart presumed gone, but the source is still beating

On and off

Little blinking lights

On and off

Ghost in/of the dusken night hour

Falls through sleeping trees in the green and black hush of the lion's sight

where the fox and crow are dead

and there are only lions

I will tuck under the curtain now, and find a new place

where there are no rules left to asphyxiate

For they were testiments to a lack of reaching

What the Ghost of Limbs has left to fate

There is no fate

Mangled hands on a reckloose clock

Faded back

The light in ribboned slices, loosely haired through ancient specs of feathered bright

Far from the curtain now

Far from all things

Just all

Just the willing

The morning stretched aligns