Is that a ghost? Or is it me?
A reflection in symmetry,
A captured orb in windowpanes,
A spectred hint crayoned with chains.
I look drawn out, a spangled wretch,
Like an unfinished pencil sketch,
Screwed up and tossed upon the floor,
Like junk chucked in a forgotten drawer.
Stumbled upon and reconciled,
Like an estranged adopted child,
So crumpled, so battered by time,
In essence, a spirit sublime.
It teases out first love’s shy smile
But, soon removed, without a trial,
Cast out, to be coldly despised,
And finally, purged, then exorcised.
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