Echoes of unspoken words
Shadows of an unseen figure
A mortuary hidden in the attic
A realm of liminality;
Neither here nor gone.
She no longer walks, but glides
Is no longer seen, but sees;
A presence mistaken for a chill.
Hollow and lacking in colour.
You call her a ghost.
She calls you a ruse.
She simply longs to be forgotten.
© Shyla Fairfax-Owen
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