Written by: Keith Bickerstaffe

The face at the window,
the feeling of dread as I tread 
to the door, the mysterious welcome, 
a touch on my shoulder, a cough 
down the hall, a shadowy figure 
in Civil War dress looking oddly 
like me, blowing his bugle then 
vanishing into the dark.
I am back at Appomattox,
my comrades around me 
lying dead or dying.
In front of a looking glass
feeling transparent, 
we stare in the mirror,
there's no image, no image at all.