Ghosts. A Microstory.

Ghosts

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The Midnight Hours. I.

The midnight hours call to me.
Darkness given voice with the siren song of countless sleepless nights
The world looks different in the moonlight,
Softer, colder, kinder.
Laid bare in the lingering light of an unseen star,
Spread naked and waiting.
Muted with the hush of deference beneath a spilled ink sky,
a graveyard of glittering ghosts
telling stories of the powerful and the arcane and I wonder
if I too
will be remembered

when I’m gone.