Souls in bright homes

Souls

in bright homes

cook tomorrow

from the day’s last scraps.

At the end of it,

laced with clichés of rest,

eyes close

and forget to see.

Only dreams remain

in skull-locked isolation;

insulated against drumming

trains of thought,

they fade

with the sun

and percolate

upwards into black sky

to wait

for a sign of promise

near the hard edge of heaven

queuing among ghosts

where crowded souls

drift against

the gates of heaven

hungry for the afterlife.

© BH, 2021

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You take a piece of something else, hack it into shape and finally something emerges. This came out of ‘City of Tiny Lights'. Just saying. I had the urban racetrack in my head to begin with, then the moon over conurbations, and weather (there’s always weather). 

This didn’t fit, the souls, migrating as they do. Anywhere but here, you’d think. But there they go, rising out of the mundane to hang about in the expectation of just deserts. What do they know?

What do any of us know?