All Flags Are Grey

Tungsten ghosts drift/slip
through corners in back rooms,
grey light windows pulsing
carbide curtains/twisted neck
Convulsing shadow figures faceless suits of blank numbers
Zero in/flickering out again
Wraith without wealth of flesh
Somewhere lost underneath
Bridging trees crying whispers
Cryptic hands fingers skin
Count to tin
Wintry frosts
Tungsten ghosts~



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 564 times
Written on 2016-12-09 at 01:58

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