Something about the air



1/4/2017 A prose set of imagery, ghosts and secrets

A phantom hand,

tiny and ephemeral,

rests briefly at my wrist.

My lightning eyes

far too slow to catch sight

of this ghostly limb.

A silent touch,

at shoulder, cheek and throat

as my hands follow this exact path,

yet grasp nothing.




A whisper comes in an envelope of cloud.

Time itself is wrapped up in this instant,

and seemingly mine to play with,

as a child with a ball.

So, here I hold it,

in my callous palm,

blind to its significance,

treating it with the disdain

normally reserved for a Tele-marketer's phone call.


...a snort of derision...


...and, Lo, it is gone.

The moment dissolving like fog

as the hot sun emerges from behind a cloud.




Her shadow falls far from her,

behind and beyond her reach,

as she walks in darkness,

as she walks,

as she walks.


My eyes strain to see her,

this silent creature of tonight,

as she walks she is darkness,

as she walks,

as she walks. 


She pulls my breath with her,

drags it on her feminine body as a spider's web...

as she walks in darkness,

as she walks,

as she walks.


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