A Scrap Of Paper, Reclaimed

Standing in awe before a streetlight
All around, darkness mingling
With the ghosts I knew by name
Brushing up against a cone of illumination
Silent, silent;

Above, a red moon howling
Shearing stars, already dead
Themselves ghosts,
Masquerading as angels;
Their glimmering remains
Not unlike the light I sat beneath
Half a warm night, wondering
Where they end and I begin