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.
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