Michael Robartes
and the Ghost

Perhaps the inner self is right,
the outer self a trick of light,
a phantom who bewitched our sight,
insubstantial as the star-tipped night.

And when the outer stood and spoke,
he told his inner wisp of smoke,
“You’re like an ancient mystic’s joke.”
But both were gone when I awoke.

Sam Cherubin

If you've any comments on this poem, Sam Cherubin would be pleased to hear from you.