this city is dead
ghosts wandering
waiting to expire
they are haunted
in this vacuum
their skin
birch white
they dress up
they dope up
try to feel
try to steal
the conflagration
of their fleshy counterparts
they wreak of death
of smoke and vapor
and department store wretch
they charge and rush
to go nowhere fast
they can’t see each other
but the living
we are beacons
they are moths to a flame