Rising up from the depths of an emerald puddle
Mongst sinuous tendrils of white,
The louche dredges memories sunk in the bottle
All but dead and drowned til tonight.
The pallid visages of days long repressed
Bob toward the surface en masse,
Filling the brim with the fleeting, sweet kisses
Of him whos the ghost in the glass.


His image solidified there in the shallows,
A bittersweet glimpse of viridian eyes
Rendered blind gainst the yellow-tinged, opaque concoction
That rollicks like storm clouds in afternoon skies
Falls victim to arabesques shapeless in nothingness
As reluctant thoughts come to pass--
That my heart still yearns for him whos the ghost in the glass.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Glacian, in the year 455 AF.