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

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