A ghostly migration drifts across the indigo shelf
of the evening, a caravan of souls unmoored from
the gravity of clay.
They do not march; they flow like spilled milk
through the rafters of the stars, a silent procession
of translucent weight.
There are no wagons here, no creaking wheels
or tethered beasts. Only the soft friction of memory
against the wind.
They carry the shape of what they loved—
the phantom outline of a child’s hand, the scent
of rain on scorched earth.
The vibration of a song that ended mid-note,
each spirit is a lantern dimmed by the vastness,
a flickering pulse in the Great Cold.
They move toward the horizon where the sun has left,
a bruise of violet light. They do not look back
at the huddled cities or the quiet graveyards.
Where their names are already being erased by moss,
up there, the air is thin and holy, seeking the sea
into a crowded thoroughfare of peace.
