Specter

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argent light shines down
upon a grave dappled hill.
death does not walk here,
instead it sleeps;
though upon rare occasions,
when the earth’s satellite seeks reprieve
behind billows of sky-bound veils,
the Sandman’s sway knows a brief surcease,
and phantasms conceived
of Platonic philosophy,
rise from their crypts.
they displace nothing of earth, nor of air,
these distorted perceptions,
these false semblances who make claims
upon continued existence...

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Image: Howard Pyle, Pirate Ghost, 1921