Phantom
J
Juan Olivarez
0
Altın Yaprak
It's a whisp of smoke,
That hovers over a room.
Tiny flashing lights,
In a dark night.
An ancient essence,
Suspended in time,
Something dead,
That at times,
Appears to be alive.
It's a cold wind,
On A hot summer night,
It's the prickling,
On the back,
Of your neck,
For no apparent reason.
It's the hairs on your forearms,
Slowly rising,
With a sound that your ears,
Did not hear.
That you felt,
with a forgotten sense.
10/20/10 Alton Texas
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