Voices
The wind has emptied its spectral graves.
Wingless birds sing.
Raccoons climb through trembling throats.
Cats no longer hunt but howl.
Lights flicker, minds darken,
Hands grow pale in the lowering clime.
Ghost are seeking, but what?
Perhaps they search for the root
of we rootless beings,
that ancient vine
that binds us to the wine of life
while the wind only sings
of lost and empty things,
chaff and husks
in the tempests mouth.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment