FRAYED

Punctured, and weeping, along the rutted racecourse of time,

Phantoms murmur in the darkle and watch

As stretched shadows roll inward, tremble,

And stutter toward decay.

Crudely carved onto broken ground, whispered silence is cast in ghostly silhouette.

It bites with sharpened, wraith-like, teeth,

trails the savaged, green, soul of the earth, with suffering,

and claims a puckered forfeit in rusted blood.