That highway,
remember the black asphalt paved way to the Ancients?
Well, tonight I took it again.
Over the hills and the winding curves, through collected
rocks and beyond
the rise that meets dusk.
With spindly tree limbs
teasing the outskirts of my whims–there were words.
Lights are ghosts,
you know they are always were
and always will be.

Ghosts
Behind the curtains
remember the sheer white
speckled with moonlight
Letting in the worlds on
the other side of space?
Traveling down the highway
of the Ancients

You find your place looking
down on the runes of witch’s,
left from the final season,
in the pages of a hollowed out
Encyclopedia Britanica,
on the black crumbling highway
of the Ancients.