From the mist,

A silhouette.

Too distant for image,

Too near for a clear picture.

 

An energy

Only present

When shadows dream.

The envy

Of everything

Made of skin.

 

It is dark,

The road is cold.

No sound

But the earth breathing

And occasional flicker

Of rustling leaves

Gathering in communal,

Autumnal graveyards.

 

The world turns slightly.

The image in the mist

Leaves revealing two secrets;

Somewhere a person is missing

And a shadow has come alive.