Will-o’-the-Wisp
The furtive idea, flares ghost-ignited,
in a fevered yellow-blue glimmer,
on the edge of sight,
just out of reach,
beckoning you towards it.
Pirouetting, bobbling and whirling,
above the sodden, choking, black mire
of mundane, numbed and stale thoughts.
You draw near,
It slips away.
Crawl closer.
It slings away.
Try to snatch a side-ways glance—
It dissolves,
like a phantom mirage.
But this will-o'-the-wisp—
this alluring fiery gas spirit
is undeniably real.
It’s not an illusion,
but a seductive snare,
a promise left dangling, festering, unmet,
until cornered, captured,
shattered and scorched,
torn, beyond recognition
by the ruthless pursuit,
in the reek of the marsh-fume ooze,
before dusk, devours the day.
Copyright ©
John Anderson
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