In a haunted domicile, where time stands still,
the interior to see it was my will,
dwelled a wraith in a white scantil chemise,
forgotten amenities past its demise.
While others are loth to visit that venue
nothing imped me to lose my ingenue.
For I was lost in juvenile reverie
I regarded this place as not so eerie.
But from where came that looming whimsical fume,
That lulled me like soft mannequin perfume?
In this house, devoid like the Hammada
the haze began to emerge an armada
of arcane mystery in fluctuation,
the stir commenced an agitation.
Immense wrath enlivened this lorn incensement
of a bandaged psyche in distaff enragement.
I tried the doomed ghost to slacken its reins,
to toss all aggressiveness out of its veins.
Perhaps to meddler it was never exposed,
but all of a sudden it was right composed.
In its arm the femme phantom sheltered a doll,
in this nice adherence it began to loll.
On the bleak brink of the doors of perception,
I asked myself if this was a deception.
But I saw the wan face, white as ivory,
the whole guise was an allure ex clarity,
in the end words of the lips so deathly pale
netted me beyond every earthly scale.
Henceforth I solemnise my heavenly chance
to observe this wonderful mystery dance.
Since then I often visit my Terpsichore,
beloved apparition on the corridor
and with an unclosed promise I end this lore:
maybe I see it again or nevermore.