are there any takers
who choose to look
into the electric mist
where there is
no sun
yet still
shadows of men
with their longing arms
curling
like ancient gnarled oaks,  
their legs like roots mired
in the sanctified mud
where we ask
if whispers of men
are really screams of ghosts
are there any takers
who choose
to wander this fog
to hear the symphony
of the dead, in
the gray haze
of dreary dreams
beyond this long walk
there
is
no
beyond the grave
only the soft siphoned roar
around it
in,
of
the electric mist