My Life In Word

Ghost in the Fog

In the hush where morning lingers,
A pale spirit parts the mist,
Silent as an ancient secret,
Soft as winter on the wrist.
Eyes like weathered moons are watching,
Calm beneath the silver sky,
Holding storms it never speaks of,
Letting passing shadows die.
Ghost-white mane in quiet motion,
Breath dissolving into air,
A lonely king of fog and stillness,
Wrapped in silence, there.
No trumpet call, no thundering gallop,
Only presence, deep and slow—
Like a dream the earth remembers
From a thousand years ago.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Sayan Ghosh on Unsplash

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