There’s a ghost on her lips, that openly sits,
that others, have chosen to miss,
exposed, in ethereal wisps,
they’re supposed to be kissed,
dying for some company, like deer in the mist,
on a quiet country road.
Now the summer’s thin,
That autumnal skin, is coloured in,
leafy hues, frontlining, to summon a king,
or prince or pauper, or out-of-print author.
Lips stuck by lipstick, haunted beauty
And still the ghost dances.