Ghost Chill

Ghost chill; I hear The Voice.
So many drawn below,
shifting position in queue;
waiting to spasm my sight.

In flame glow I waltz a last in fumes.
Blood tattoo an underwhelming heart,
low-fidelity rapture stirring cello-strings;
aerating of plasm in sweeping theme.

Ash, ash, all to ashen whisper;
moments spoken in fear.
Acid-decayed thoughts in throes;
Burn, burn, crumble ember, none remain.


[18:17|09.11.012] ©c.thomas.carter