The Veil thinned out this evening.
I caught myself reaching for
The cell phone in my pocket
Thinking to call souls long gone
Or dead or from life absent,
Floating through fog and darkness.
Such tricks and phantoms do lurk,
Mourning like grieved Nienna,
Bent forlorn and regretful,
Among soft-heartwood Doug firs.
Sober sentinels judging
No pained act of ghost or man.
Nothing might be named madness
In such light-suffocating
Cold, wintry solstice cycles,
When haunts and lamentations,
Leech through such a
Thin,
Stretched,
Veil.
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