Greyhound

They have departed this world, yet still they ride through it. Charon, their driver, collects the coins from off their eyes, from under their tongues. The asphalt is his river now. Grey souls riding a grey bus, a faded dog on each side, chasing an eternal rabbit. Each soul searching for a reason for what was, for a path to what will be. Searching for their own angels, running from their own demons. Each has their own reason for not leaving this veil of tears, not yet, for not going wherever it is that the dead go, not yet. Doggedly chasing phantom rabbits down a moonlit interstate, in a bus with chrome sides worn to a dull almost transparent finish. As soft as dead leaves. As sharp as new wine.