The Wraith

The Wraith

Huddled against the icy wind

That gusts under the shapeless flaps

Of its black flowing cowl,

The wraith peers in at the frosted glass,

With red tormented eyes burning.

Inside the doll house

The fire gleams cozy and warm.

The wind up toys laugh and chatter

And cry pretty tears glistening on rosy cheeks.

But they do not see the phantom

Who lurks at their window

And needs to suck their blood

To feed his empty shell.

– John E Leahy

ca 1970