For Jim, (the Lizard King)

There are no grand ghosts here
they are small yet significant
with grandiose capes and masks,
they scuttle and blather about
and buzz that buzz until
it becomes as a drone
a monotonous hummmmm
that caves with each intake and gasp,
like the last whimper
of a glowing ember
upon its death, the howl
the ranting then surrender.

Slingshots made of angels' wings
propel without much thought,
memories that cross hither and there
and knowing how crowds of them
can darken, have darkened, yet
in the midst of it all, you disappear.

Freely we surrender ourselves
to those who know no better,
they just speak a better game.