Visions of the Darkness
There is a ghost on the floor
playing with imagined liquid—
blood, water, or time-will-tell.
If he had a mouth, he’d smirk in perfection,
boisterousness might play in the pits he calls eyes.
Never looking at you—only looking through you.
Whispers of something floating in disguise.
The Faceless Man he’s been known to be called
and he’d smile at your horror and quizzical expression
as you reached for where the drip
was coming out of the wall,
but finding, really, there was nothing there at all.
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Author’s Note on post 333: Something quick to prove that my mind does indeed still work. Inspired by this.
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