raven's eye

windchimes glisten.
but the wind cannot rip reality - black fingernails - from the cuticles of tree fingers.
your breath is sad.
like humanity.
as you deeply expel the filth that you have no say but to swallow -
like cigarette smoke.
did one who lives in the icebox ground
once plea to habitate their current dwelling
before their time?
would they be sorrowful to see us...
wondering to be in their company.
two ghost.
we prefer community of the peaceful dead.
rather than those who contribute to clique.