Misteps, framed in silken thread

Lost a thing or two, gained a load
taking too many detours from my road.
The things I find I miss the most,
my mind, my soul – are replaced by ghosts;
echos of me spinning in pale-wrapped spells,
like dangling dragonflies that hang as bells
from a very successful web – glistening grey,
where lives are lost in the misflight of a day.

Moments dissipate at a breath
with aftershocks rattling even after death.
But, frail-winged things rarely fly strait
iron-clad and thirsting for faith.