ghosts

We all are ghosts.

Some burn bright in the fog.

Others burn low.

Wandering these empty city streets, in the shadow of sleezebag hotel scenes, seeing the way back to the place we came from. A propped door gapes wide open, waiting for a single step to lead to a fall, friable brick walls crumble around.

This is the sum of all our pasts, shrouded, shattered, torn.

Gone we now, to fade the gloam.