red shadows on deserted snowfall

ghosts, flimsy in their marauding, need nothing else
ectoplasm, white sheets, theatrical paint, well aimed howls

long rotted in deep earthy graves, or immediately ashen
by human fires-of-hell, they nourish thought, emotion

and vegetable gardens in the country where bulldozers
never uproot the home-grown compost of past generations

their skin itches, like amputees missing car-crashed limbs
and they wander in and out of liveable lives for warmth

and we, cliché-fond and not-yet-otherworldly-savvy, reject
and fear their impetuous, jealous and invasive natures

chains rattle, bottles crash, cold drafts appear, Ouija boards
predict conversations with Ravens and Sphinxes, nevermore

in this state of nebulousness, we all err for part of eternity
our gods abandon us for one last choice: to preserve our souls

to haunt, to daunt, not to remain ensconced in sordid, rotting flesh
human folly, like fake vampire teeth, orbits beyond imagination


just theatre
[2013.1.4…c]
Prompt: too, too solid / sullied flesh