fahrenheit

solid things are like illusions
representations of dead spirits
and the cold bodies of human shapes
animate by the wraiths within

in the night
hope comes like the breath of a woman

the lips of a woman remain real
while the real world changes and falls
objects without souls forming shadows
shadows the harbour of choices
lingering allusions to control
scratching at the palm of the hand

it’s all up in your head nowhere-man
but outside the snow falls
those ghosts in your soul will ruin them all
or be their saviour

you choose