By Jason Kincade

Called out of the fog
From withered fields,
Avenging ghosts reemerge,
Riding the retro train,
Rolling...rolling along.

When they, bloodied by your sins of old, reach the wall,
They will crash through once again, one behind the other,
To stomp out your rose garden and squish you boxes of chocolate.

As do less endowed, why can't you,
The hard-nosed pragmatist,
Just bury your insidious, old jumble of bones?

Why can't you, driven and strong willed,
Halt the fatuous flogging that saps your dash
Until you must struggle just to stand against a breeze?

. /