The ghosts and I

The ghosts and I huddle in moonbeams,
discussing ethereal shifts in spirit.
They inquire after how I am,
inspecting my soul for trauma.
"I'm alive" is stated once,
twice, then thrice.

Always and only when darkness
settles deathly, do the ghosts arrive;
consciousness committing suicide
in order to channel there.
Lucid hands betray crystalline grief,
and yet I've never felt so much at home.

Icicles suspended on spineless words,
cause one casualty every breath.
The ice age massacre has begun.