A Lonely Ghost

I saw a shadow. A ghost of the sort That drifts; Like a snow storm On the ice Of a sorrowful Stream: Bit alas, He drowned. But the ghost Still wanders; Because he is A beckoned wave Upon the battered Shores Of a capricious Windmill: It turns Upon the dew Of a deer’s hide: So gentle, So sweet As a dove caught – In the heart Of a Windswept glacier. The heat Freezes as a step Before a tear drop’s Home: Complete with a fire And a man Sitting Upon his chair. The man No longer a boy, Certainly not: He has grown As a tree Feasting Off the water Of a nearby brook. The brook is cloudy With mud Dust And Thuds of thunder: The crackling thunder, The sort That instills fear Upon the triumphant eyes Of a hound. The brook is lost Lonesome, Scared; Worried that the cloud That should be dirt Is secretly A lost And lonely Ghost.