Devil Dogs and Phantoms

Devil dogs wail at the crescent moon
A fragment of some long cherished island
Projects itself out of the sky, into the garden pond
A slice of lemon on its tremulous surface
And, to our dismay, it still remains unreachable

These are the games we play after dark
We are phantoms who have not made it to heaven yet
Instead we dance gracefully over our terrain of regret
We hold hands, we leap across the land
And, just for a moment, we are free

Invisible mostly, but every now and then
We flicker into sight. The living call us ‘ghosts’
And assault us with priests and holy water
From which we flinch because it burns
We retreat, preparing for a counter-attack

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