The wraiths are calling,
Through the frigid grey air of a day,
Seemingly eternal like a year,
Like a mirror reflecting a mirror,
In which the earth forms an emulsion,
With an emotionless sky.

Calling, Calling,
From shore to shore,
Across the black sea of a dilated pupil,
Amongst drifting dissonant chords,
The sour music of disappointments,
The white noise of existence,
Bleeding ears,
Bleeding heart.

Calling, calling,
Through the faces of angry clocks,
Falling from the sky,
This occasion's rain,
Shattering on the ground,
Spilling intestines of cogs and levers,
Forming constellations and galaxies,
Of an unknown parallel world.

“Come with us,
Come home.”

© DP Jones 09/03/11

published December 2011