I have walked in deep, dark places,
and crawled through darker, still --
gas-lit slums long after the dusk,
where lamplight failed to spill.
So surprised by fleeting faces
that faded in and out --
like visions from the sleep-drift, they
never loiter about.
They come, they see, and then they pass --
these alien observers.
They pass with just a fleeting glance,
like someone else's server.
They care not what you think you need,
or who you think you are.
You're just an automaton shopper
within the grand bazaar.
This entry was posted in Common Meter, poem, Poetry and tagged Common Meter, Darkness, ghosts, poem, poetry by
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