Michael McGuire The Ghost She Is
Proof in echoes of light, thru vaulted corridors of night, sing like ambient
pulse of soul, river thru weariest night does roll.
The treasure of the haunting, the ghost she is.
Billowing skirts of memory, what is and might not ever be, rain on a silent
summers dawn, whispers and murmurs we are drawn.
The treasure of the haunting, the ghost she is.
Face like a shadows will, nerve net for what the night does feel, captured
in dreams not born of sleep, lost again in the darkness deep.
Flowing of rooms and atmospheres, she breaks light then just disappears
The treasure of the haunting, the ghost she is.
June 01