I see the products of my mind,
Those misty forms
Flying around corners.
There one goes now,
A blur of smoky black,
Seen and unseen.
Existing
Only in the periphery of sight;
These wanders of dreams,
Those invaders of reality,
Lovely perpetrators of imagination.
For most they plague the senses.
For some they stand as curiosities.
For me they are a dangerous prey.
Chasing ghost adds excitement
To this dreary life of solid forms.
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