Burning lamps kiss the air tenderly
A soft whisper that whimpers gently
is lost in the echoes of the room
There is a broken wind that sporadically
gusts with a sharp yet controlled howl
Along the hall stands a grey weather
beaten figure, who glares into a dimly lit
mirror
The pale face that stares back, hag-ridden
and dazed, numb with guilt now
The shadows linger for a while, but
reflections, they never fade
Copyright © 2023 Gareth David Ogilvie
