Ghosts are made by human hands, the things those hands take.
Ghosts in the dark and damp forests, the highway to the sea.
Ghosts haunting dimming hearts, restless dreams, empty nights.
Angels cannot be depended on. We’re let down by Star of the East.
Bones call a song in the darkness, but so few hear, or come with Myrrh.
No wrapping clothes, no ceremony for the lost, no rolled away stone.
The end of the highway, I sit on the beach, watching grey waves crash.
Will sea and land give up their dead, will The Demons be judged harshly?
Will the left behind be made first, by the God that looked the other way?