The market of souls is an ethereal tradition.
When you see it for the first time
you are struck by the crimson light
and the large posters asking you
to tread softly upon the ground.
The traders line the alley,
each side glittering for centuries.
And as moments whistle by
your days become your life
and you are yet to snare a bargain.
Today I am an observer.
I have not the ticket
to buy or swap or sell a soul.
Old time hagglers and the new
bump and jostle, smoke curls
slowly above the tents while
strange and beautiful music
lilts through the air.
Old greybeard herself sits quietly
on a treestump. She doesn't do much
trading herself these days ... or so they say.
Only if the urge takes her, or unless there's a
Picasso or Michelangelo or that lovely old temptress
from down the road up for grabs ...
Her work is done for her ...
When asked by the Ethereal Post recently
on her apparent lack of trading ... she said
"oh these things take care of themselves ...
I'm only here for the spectacle"
And so I wandered with this in mind,
watching the way of the souls ....
back and forward, wrapped up and boxed,
on display and discounted ...left on the shelf,
making their own way.