Scuttling along, as if non-existent,
(existence is mandatory for substance)
puff! What an illusion
to cause mental confusion.
Whoosh--night winds lead me toward
. . . pinpricks of light.
I am worn, a threadbare carpet
. . . in life’s building—
e’en the slumlord cast me out.
My age-blackened portrait hangs ‘neath sickle moon
(if I were alive, my being would swoon).
It sways, lop-sided, in substantial light;
cobwebs weave over the face I once wore.
Whoosh--night winds push me toward
. . . pinpricks of light.
I am worn, a threadbare carpet
. . . in life’s building—
e’en the slumlord cast me out;
now, ghostly, I’m out and about.
You can smell me comin’ round, pungent I sway
in an advanced state of rot, decay.
I put up a fight, never took flight that day--
whoosh--night winds evoke, prod me, toward
. . . pinpricks of light.
I’m worn, a threadbare carpet
. . . in life’s building—
e’en the slumlord cast me out
and folks laid me in the hollowed ground to stay.
Now . . . I might as well leave
as no one’s left to grieve me.
There are no tricks up my sleeve.
Whoosh--night winds prevail toward
. . . pinpricks of light.
I’m worn, a threadbare carpet
. . . in life’s building—
e’en the slumlord cast me out.
E’en spirits can succumb to mis’ry
when no one is left to miss thee.
I give myself a bit of fright
in haunting hues of pitch black night . . .

WHOOSH!