Poem: Nightly Spirit

 

ghost_picture

 

Tickle my ear at three in the morning

Brush the bottom of my foot with mist

 

See the dreams I carry that do not rhyme

Remember the fallen that rest in the corner of the eye

A phase-shift out of reach, stuck in the web of mind

 

Take the tack off the desk

Move the keys under the couch

Roll the pencil out of reach

 

But never talk to me as one who is dead,

My breath’s bank of days still holds cash

 

-by Shannon Laws