The Ghost

A smattering of laughter 

Punctures the silence-- 

Not often do I travel this way. 

 

The sky, a black blanket 

Dotted with stars, 

Cosmic and frigid,  

 

Rains shards of itself 

Like a wintry tree sheds rotted fruit. 

 

I crush them underfoot. 

The chill expands.  

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