Phantoms have a funny way about mirrors,

Don’t they?

Vacant eyes are ironic

Untouched lips of a semiarid day

Sun-kissed skin, ironic

Hair abated to dusted gray

 

Dwelling within the brittle space between black and white

Aren’t they?

An undead intermission

In purgatorial hiatus, uninterrupted  stairway

Interrupted from the living

And death will come another day

 

Mired behind this silver tinged half-window

or are they?

If stars aligned and caught some angelic hand

Could they transverse the looking-glass barricade?

Better a decadent reminiscence

To live something resembling a glorious cabaret

 

Then to find company, perhaps ask, “what is it you write about?”

It’s you today.