Specters of Zong, Specters of Automaton (September, 2026)

The ancients walk within,

Screeching through our walls,

Our permeable but bounding bare skin

Through which spirits rush like waterfalls.

The ghosts of egos not yet liberated,

Of slaves not yet emancipated,

Stride ominously alongside

The archetypes we hold with pride,

The hero and the mother,

Whose arms we fall into for cover,

Seeking security in vain, afraid of unraveling.

How might we coexist with those traveling

From beyond the grave

To presence in our mental cave?

How might we earn the trust

Of our heroes in the collective unconscious

Who might guide us through this storm of dust?

Alerting us to the tightrope we walk

As we navigate between where we’ve been

And where we would like to be, seemingly ad hoc,

We know these ghosts to be our kin.

To pay them each proper tribute,

We must practice our mute.

Hearing their whispers bubble up,

We are reminded we always have company.

As good hosts, we must regularly tidy up,

Clearing space for their profundity.