.
.
looming gloomily through mist drifts,
here, in the moonlit land of hollow women;
bouldering enormity~shadows rule the ruinous remnants.
The ghosts, the ghosts
.
.
Scattered like a swift.tipped sewing box,
sulkily skulking behind button rocks.
Pin pierced starlight - a measure of days
blindly winding away.
.
.
We stumble, tearing at our hair,
our lips are as chapped and dry as the skeletal’bracken
we pace upon, night after night.
Like Sisyphus we heave our guilt.weight
.
.
to an invisible summit, a terrible truth
as colossal as the bone-cold granite we climb,
Basalt’s bride crying
~where is love?~ to the deaf, deaf fog.
