Phantom spirit, ‘neath shroud of green
tangled ivy, wrapped in strangle-hold
around your form unseen.
What lurks hidden until the light
of fading day is by the earth consumed
to welcome spectres of the night?
Can your dark visage be so vile
that you should cower like some clandestine soul
condemned to haunt this vault with artful guile?
Furtive form, reveal yourself so
eyes might see the nature of your being,
or skulk forever with them that passed below.