and the Ghost
Perhaps the inner self is right,
the outer self a trick of light,
a phantom who bewitched our sight,
insubstantial as the star-tipped night.
And when the outer stood and spoke,
he told his inner wisp of smoke,
Youre like an ancient mystics joke.
But both were gone when I awoke.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sam Cherubin would be pleased to hear from you.