Musings of a Lonely Shadow She stands in billowing silken robes, Blooming in the frosty night. Her ethereal presence of ebony passion Beats against the corners of my sanity. Longings, forgotten hopes, dreams of what might be, Dashed upon night's haunting edge. I am one of many in a swarm of grasshoppers, Leaping o'er a field of spectral bliss, Clouded over by the mists of narrowmindedness. Pain. Anger. Hate. Rage. Wrangling their fearsome tentacles about my will, Scheming my demise, blades of envy glinting in the moonlight. Dare I indulge the fragile cries of instinct's whisper? Dare I glory in the seeds of romance that drive me to the brink of anxiety? I sit back, Reflect, Read over my words. At first, This poem appears silly, Because it does not mean anything. Night's haunting edge, indeed. But then I look closer. I'm a great poet after all. This poem isn't so bad. Because, If nothing else, I used the word "ethereal." And A poem that uses That word Can't be All That Bad. Samuel Stoddard