They are too pure to look our way
with merriment and joy to carry on
lost in the map it’s we who stray
groping about, close but withdrawn.
Stories retold before we dream
fodder for frights casting dark shadows
from resting to upright we scream
waking the dead from our gallows.
The light hides only the brighter
from the confused state of darker days
few dare to become the writer
for this theodic dirge of praise.
Last and least ghosts hiding in sight
refusing to play as they taunt and tease
haunting the child they incite
ugly shivers which oddly please.