lisa hancox


It Can'T Be Can It?

a spirit drifts through the black mist,
of your bare cellar and hall,
groaning with noises of sighing wind,
it can't be a ghost you say to yourself,
spying over the window sill,
but the earth outside is hushed and peaceful.

as the spirit whooshes outside your room,
a scary glowing fills the dimness,

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