The ghosts rolled in upon the fog.
Spirits whispering upon the air
They gasp and sigh,
Upon the silent, gossamer light of dawn
Across the branches of the trees,
Against cold, scarred, marbled edifice,
Along the cold, pavement of vacant streets,
And through blackened fences of wrought-ed iron.
Leaving abandoned tears
In condensation upon window panes
The air is heavy with it,
Dense and humid.
For when we breathe in this heavy mist,
We take in the aged,
Feel these ghosts cling to our clothes,
Leave their cloying murmurs upon youthful skin.
So that they may rejoin this vibrant life
Until the passage of Time
Brings forth the riotous sun
Risen victorious from the ashes of night,
To burn the dregs
Of clinging ghostly fog away.