Specters In Transit Poem by Alexander Romanov

They come from where the darkness breathes,
Ghosts riding on the wormwood air.
Beside me, figures twist like wreaths,
My vessel shifts—a thought, a flare.

Time is a static cage we bear,
Unanchored yet we cannot flee.
Freedom's a burden hard to wear,
We orbit what we'll never see.

We mark the days with wounds that bleed,
Our clothes are stained with hues of rust.
At night, we pick apart the seed,
Unraveling the stars to dust.

We are the souls interred nearby,
Adjacent to the silent graves.
Impaled by shards that pierce the sky,
Reflections in the eyes of waves.

Alive, yet made of fragile glass,
We wade through syrup thick and cold.
We vanish where the shadows mass,
Becoming echoes long untold.

An endless queue of broken wings,
We scribble scars across the night.
Enormous birds, untethered things,
Still searching for the lost daylight.