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Ghosts

Pass me the fire
And I’ll claim the lead,
A ghost on the stairs, just the envoy of deeds,
I’ll search for the shapes that hang in the dark,
The fall of a shroud on the points of a star.
The halls frame a crypt,
That rings of the rite,
The whispers of prayer embered stark in the night.
We trespass this place,
And carry no tact:
A scrawling of red on a sad artifact.
Each step slaps a thud
In the wet sound of blood,
Growing and gargling
To warn of the flood
That creeps through these halls
And fingers the walls,
Dragging it’s way t’wards a crooked old door.
We stand 'neath the frame
And remember the name,
We purpose as fire to sharpen our claim.
Now fall to the left,
And steady your breath,
As vandals we venture in the shadow of death.
 
Give me the lamp
And I’ll sit by the door,
A ghost in the cracks, just a shape on the floor,
I’ll wait for the men with the slide in their step,
The tells and the traits that betray their intent:
A scraping swallow,
The creak of new boots,
The fear of the wood as it cries underfoot,
The storming of thoughts
‘Neath a helmet too large,
The ripples of rain ’cross a proud promenade.
We follow the hands
Trailing first after last,
Racking the minutes
And stretching the span
Of a delicate stasis,
An impasse of races,
A ritual forced on the tired and the naked.
We hide in the grain,
‘Neath the sound of a name,
A balm and for the burn, but a brand for the flame.
We hold for the night,
Slivered safe and slight,
As whispers we’ll wait for the stirring of life.

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