She roamed old halls of midnight´s ice,
When all slumbered, except bats & mice,
Wafting lightly, dressed in Victorian lace,
Through corridors of old assassin’s place.
A flash of passing white & a hint of mist,
Cold breeze on neck, what have I missed?
A feeling so strong, that someone is there,
Was that someone touching soft, my hair?
A whispered breath, a sob, a drawn out wail,
Scratching midnight pane, with long dead nail,
A whiff, aroma of perfume, long dead buried,
A glance askance, passing tress, lip red cherried.
Imagination, nightmare or mere passing dream,
Am I asleep, awake, silent or stifling mute
scream?
Is it lightning in the sky or just a passing
lantern?
Shh child, it´s just me, your passing future
phantom.
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