It's Still Life

A Shadow Slips – into the myth of ghosts

It happens.
A visionary tic.

Maybe it’s a memory muscle.
Like knowing the sun is warm.

It happens.
A shiver in your chest.

Maybe it’s my narrow psyche.
Like drowning in shallow water.

It happens.
It’s sharp. It’s flat. A shadow slips.

Maybe a ghost, Mum said.
And I felt someone

walk
over my grave.

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These poems/prose are draft versions, written in participation of Miz Quickly’s prompts and Poetic Asides November poem-a-day challenge. The aim: to produce a chapbook for submission. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Images are mine, ©Misky, and created using AI-Midjourney.