This is a story about a ghost
No, this is a poem about a spirit that slips through the night
It is about death and the dying, the smoke that burns our eyes
Really it is a story about ghosts that come and touch us. Or torture us.
It is a poem about me and you, and the fear we have of spirits
The fear of smoke that shrouds us, chokes us, burns our eyes
I wonder like you about the worthiness of time,
I wonder too about fool's gold and what slips through my hands
My life? Your life?
What slips through your hands? My life along with yours?
Like death and the dying, I'll know the burning smoke in human eyes
But will I know it comes for me? And what will you say in last prayer?
The answer, I say: What comes for one, comes for all.
They say black isn't a colour
They are a contrast as any artist will know
One posed against the other they blend into grey
Like an old movie, there is a special beauty in a life without colour
There is a certain poise, a certain off balance, that can't be explained
The best, I think, is too awash your life in contrast
Feel, hold, see the greyness and let a special beauty take over your special soul