Small Ghosts (Poetry)

The soundless sweep of wings at night
drawn powerless to haunt the light
and brush against the window — thin
chill-misted glass that holds within
a living warmth — a golden glow
attracting small grey ghosts of snow.

They gather at the edge of dark
like fluctuating phantoms — arc
a lustrous pool — magnetic beams
that pierce a pseudo-realm that seems
bewitched — where crystal shades of death
are conjured up by night’s cold breath.

Ice-shadow-flakes that fly and beat
a frenzied silent plea for heat
like souls in transit heaven-bent
seek their true enlightenment
and beg release — their torment felt
in ultimate desire to melt.