Ghost riders.
Their particulars
printed to the flesh,
bound to living bone.
Origins forgotten,
dying revenants in
their crumbling towers:
civilisations long dead.
Thought weavers bait.
Their restless dreamers
thrash and buck,
bound in twists of linen.
Awaking only to sleep.
Life’s time travellers
nihilist clawed, reaching
beyond meaning, tearing
at the vacuous godhead.
A life under managed,
passed indentured
to a defining nostalgia.
We live as wasps do.
Angry, buzz-busy, wrapped
in our nest led lives.
Stirred back and fore
by this slow grinding
mill, a spiral of stars.
In night’s quiet
a rising.
The galaxy’s eerie cry,
it is Laniakea’s wind.
©️ Dai Fry 15th July 2020.