One night I met the ghost of a child,
Whose spectral smile and snow kissed skin glowed in winter moonlight.
Not waiting, or spying. Not plotting or conniving.
He stood still, beneath black starlight.
All I could do was return to my bed, his image burned in my mind.
I tried to avoid forgotten wants, letting my thoughts unwind.
It can’t be true, but I read a tale,
Whose ending shakes me still.
A time. An hour.
That strikes at 12.
And spills across the windowsill.
A time when spooky thoughts surface,
But ghosts and goblins are no more.
All that’s left are tattered dreams,
The ones clawing at your door.
The Thought Hole 