Untilted

Some things disintegrate to dust In the ghost of death It’s hard to admit, but we forget Lest we forget You can still notice it, but just barely Thin lines composed on a piece of paper From where the coldness of the paper on top The outline of it, the reflection Always there lingering around every corner Waiting, following, watching; the trails of its ghost No one is capable to put an end to it, let alone stop it Happening all the time, going unnoticed Sometimes we don’t want to know why To scared, vulnerable, easy prey It follows us everywhere, lingering in our shadow Always on the fringes of our very existence... A ghost of a whisper