A Fresh Fold in the Map of the Haunted Parade
A fresh fold in the map—where apparitions thread
Through crooked streets of memory and dread;
Lanterns sputter on a ghostly avenue,
Each footstep stirs a reflection born anew.
Here, banners fray in whispers of the past,
Their tattered edges sewn to spells that cast
Drumbeats that thump beneath the moon’s pale eye,
Summoning secrets buried deep and dry.
Phantom brass and spectral tambourine
Wind through the alleys of what might have been;
Their tune is neither hopeful nor afraid,
But longing for the paths they once betrayed.
We follow where the faintest torchlight leads,
Through silent crossroads, riddled with old creeds;
And every corner turns another page,
Revealing fresh folds in the Haunted Parade.
Maps may scorch where present and past collide,
Yet in those creases, lost souls still confide:
That though the world’s worn fabric frays with age,
Each folded secret charts our pilgrimage.
WoPoLi 
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