I search old photographs, seeking a sign, a fading scar,
Peering into yellowing eyes & sepia smiles,
Wondering where you are,
Looking through the memories, reversing through the miles.
You of withered flesh, now long under, gone,
No longer in existence, no longer plotting schemes,
I search within the albums, below, beneath & upon,
But cannot find your moth-eaten fraying, frightened dreams.
I untie the Woven
moon-clad spider webs,
Etched across your ancient name,
As cold as pebbled river beds,
Memories of dust hide embarrassed shame.
What songs do the bones of the ancients sing?
What whisperings of the crepe parchment souls?
Are they carried to heaven upon the raven´s wing?
Or are they buried within sinful nameless holes?
Tiptoeing through corridors of Salem´s silent tomb stones,
Long forgotten by those who deemed to weep,
Black-stockinged nights, black cats, black hats, black
swinging bones,
In souls of black justice searching repentantly deep.
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