Rushing Road

It was on the dark and rushing road,

The light penetrating six feet ahead,

The chill of midnight lingers on passing panes,

That they began to hover.

Deserted in eerie reflections,

In company of shadows and trash,

Once a home, lost in the vacuum of blackness,

They began to hover.

The weight of static hung in wet air,

As the ball gleamed like a dewy orb,

Nestled in the trimmed green grass of hope and love,

They were hovering.

As the moon made its stellar orbit,

With the churning of ocean tempests

And the continuum of the crows hoarse cries,

They hovered like ghosts.

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