Something different

This entry was typed while being helped by Freckles, one of our two cats (“pids”, as we call them). Any typos were conceived under duress.

I was going to write about “booksellers” offering (as opposed to “selling” –there’s a big difference) books which are currently in-print for $30.00 for $300.00 on ABE, but maybe not tonight. You all know that the internet is a cesspool of slimeballs already, right? It’s not just on FleaBay that you will be taken to the cleaners. So why go on about it? Phooey. Let’s talk about something else. I feel like a poem-

The silver setting sun rides close
upon the wind of echoed
ghosts and gremlins burning
in the ground, alike, alas,
but not yet bound as birds
that sing, against their tree
as blue skies haze a timeless grey.

The grey of maples,
marked with scars
shining in among
the stars as splinters echo
through the night;
the grey and yellow
splinters bare
against the chill
night's frosty air
which wraps our knees
against our coats,
we huddle close, our
breath makes ghosts,
the starlight beckons,
blazes,
boasts,
a timeless hymn
sung by the free
uncaring void which
sparkles,
marks,
a flaming spark
to light our
ghostly breaths
in grey.

Come,
sit with me
'till break of day.