An aberration of our world,
A homeless wanderer of the next -
Trapped within a place of memories,
They want no more than to perplex.
A whisper in the dead of night,
Or music that should never play.
A voice that echoes on the wind,
Too soft to hear the words they say.
A daydream of our mind's eye,
Or a shifting shadow in the fog.
Frozen lips don't make a sound
In their persistent epilogue.
A glance into the bathroom mirror,
Or features on a fleeting face.
They meander through our daytime world,
Consumed by their immortal grace.
~ C. Spies