Drifting by my window
on a cold dark winters eve,
no sound, nor chasing echo,
no path to follow or deceive.
A silent spectre; a mask of scorn,
a hazy memory, from life ’twas torn.
Jealously wanting what now it resents,
a rage no mortal can perceive or prevent.
The pulsing obsession of detached desire,
feeding the flames and stoking the fires
as it tries to cross the bridge to our plane,
resolute, relentless; a moth to a flame.
Pushing at the fabric with all of its will,
dull red eyes ignoring the light, until
with a cry of despair it relents and fades,
slowly drifting between intangible shades.
Written by Darren Scanlon, October 2009
This revised version written, 10th April 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.