It is a nebulous vision,
a scene viewed through an opaque window,
bleak faces with blazing torches
who hover at the edges of perception,
marching into the night in search
of one to persecute, one to save,
one to be a savior.
Her touch is a cut, leaving wounds
where once there was healing,
calculation and timing where once
there was love, yet, she takes
my breath with her when she leaves,
a slab on my chest to crush out life
as I am buried beneath her burden.
Her ghosts follow her into the night,
bleak faces with blazing torches.
It is a nebulous vision.
for the Sunday Whirl