The body is worn, but still warm.
A lonely ghost paces between closed eyes, between closed hearts.
Dead walls still whisper their secrets in dead languages,
Secrets dripping hot and sticky from their pores, dark as lapis.
Sage smoke sinks into the soup, drawing tears.
A lonely ghost wades through the ichor, its destination refracted.
Stand in a silent hall.
Be muted by the irrhythm of invading whispers.
Silence cultivated like a crop. Silence that rots on the vine. Silence that attracts the buzz of flies.
A lonely ghost pauses in a void of insight, an atmosphere devoid of astute.
Open a door, find a room with no floor.
Find a rainforest.
Find a roar.
From a hall invaded, through a fissure designed, to a world unexpected, to a room with no promise defined.
Secrets bleed out from under a fireproof door.
A lonely ghost staggers into a jaded place, into a choir of ambience.
See the eyes dyed ultramarine, open to a distant vision:
not unfocused, but directed at a dream, too remote to touch.
See the cobalt-fired heart on the floor, cracked open:
not like a mussel, but like a tree, struck by lightning.
A living body in a dead house.
A lonely ghost enters, and is warm.