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by Logan
Rated: E · Poetry · History · #2261142
Something I wrote for a competition that didn't wind up happening
Spirit Trails

Phantoms line the cotton mills,
the ghosts of times gone by;
with millhouse workers froze in stills,
toned sepia, the sky

A sky that stretches over hills,
mills old and new, alike;
from Kinder Scout to tranquil rills,
the River Goyt runs right

Right on through the mists of time,
as sepia burns out;
winding through to modern rhymes,
with reason left in doubt

for when a new moon glistens high,
quicksilver in the night;
with harvests far, and nearby,
the past may come to light

and in the park, beneath the town,
you'll hear mills' hearts beat;
in the mist, machines may sound,
'midst phantom workers feet

Bustling round in the fog,
an eerie, draping mist;
rustling within the smog,
a temporal, spectral twist

as tendrils twist and mist, it swirls,
runs rife through ruins, fell;
and visions of the past unfurl,
where spirits milling dwell

Watching as the mist, it paints,
slow brush beats from the past;
a shrub club shroud, in time more quaint,
a life sedate, less fast

Then without warn, the mist recedes,
as quickly as it fell;
as silver moonlight, still, it bleeds,
what secrets it could tell?

of ruins fallen, times gone by,
and ghosts of barren mills;
with mist, its canvas, waxen skies,
... in sepia toned stills
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