Church bells echo through landlocked corridors,

Wandering in wasted spirits

Whose silhouettes

Stop at the crossroads, watching

Thatched houses burn from the roof down,

etching grooves as deep as the ocean floor, forcing

falling debris into forgotten holes.

The needle spins as they draw a breath,

Baiting you to hold yours,

Waiting to witness the next direction,

more unclear with each passing second.

The rift of the west

Lifts the shadows from the walls,

Who watch when you’re unsure,

Folding bony fingers on your shoulder,

Sucking oxygen from the air,

Still staring at the crossroads,

who goad me for an answer,

 asking where I’m going,

to avoid thee,

but the right words no longer lie there,

So there is nothing left to point me.