The flower’s were sitting withered
and dry on a cold window sill,
in the month of December.
The cool winter rushed inside
like a cold ghostly breath
on my neck it made me shiver.
A phantom perfume came by surprise
as it lingered for awhile,
I sat to wonder and to ponder
on doom lit sky’s,
that I could be this flower,
a phantom thing that never truly died.
For winter touched the velvet fiend
turning it into crystal ice,
now its perfume is forever frozen
on the window sill
and within my poetic eye’s.
Whispers and ink smeared page’s
which are stained with perfumed flower’s from yesterdays writing’s.
My phantom flower I never forgot
our interludes nor our interviews,
you live on through poems.
© By Amanda D Shelton