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Click hereGhosts of smoke
come alive again
in moonbeams,
through glass,
Smoke-lives,
in a projector's beam,
dying with the credits,
Moonbeams and smoke
tell us our stories,
then they whisper,
Waiting like ghosts
to dance again,
in smoke,
and moonbeams.
This poem was selected from Lit's archive of over 39,500 poems for inclusion in today's Archival Review.<br>
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What a difference than your usual offering. Very impressive. Good stuff. Take the poetry ball and run with it, Mutt!