The ghosts are out in force tonight,
dancing with the wind and whispering
to the moon. But she doesn’t hear them,
or maybe she doesn’t want to.
For her face is scarred by the footsteps
of fleeting travelers drunk on stars,
or rather drunk on the echoes of stars,
who died so many years ago.
And her belly is pierced by stoic
flagpoles who cry out, “I was here first!”
But their cries are lost in the cosmos,
left to linger with the space dust.
Don’t they know that the stars have no use
for the flying colors of lost men?
Created: Jun 12, 2013Document Media