Poetry

[lumberjim]

I walk the world now in the gloaming,
My silken tendrils roaming, roaming.
As though the very air were foaming;
roiling, boiling nether light.

And in the shadows, I do linger,
Grasping without fingers, fingers.
What cold silence I could bring her,
crying, flying from the night.




...still working on this....i haven't decided if this is about a ghost or the fog.....