Who’s to say this beeping isn’t a spell in our ears?
Who is to say that this barely audible thunder outside isn’t really the sound of the beating of the hooves of the dead horses?

We assume they are gone, but they are not.

It’s the buzz of electricity that stifles the warnings of the ghosts.
They cry out through the paved cities, in between the metal-clad floodgates of skyscrapers and window washers,
but our cars run over their sound-waves in a hurry to catch tomorrow before it’s today.

             (chances are we won’t even learn each other’s names)
We are all blindfolded in this panic-room of an office-building elevator
But somehow we know the lights aren’t working either.
And somehow we know we are underground -
Safe in our grave.

And I am glad we are afraid.
Who’s to say we deserve to get out of here alive anyway?