Perhaps it was an after-image
Or a ghost: something that had stirred my mind for a moment,
So powerfully that I believed it to be real,
But now it was gone,
And faded into the past like a memory forgotten,
Or a shadow into the dusk.
Perhaps it was the lingering lights;
Phi phenomenon on the marquees
Of my mind,
Damp with the thoughts of yesterday
And raw with the zeal for tomorrow.
Perhaps it was all the delusion that
Time is constant,
That stories live on paper,
And that real life ends at the
Golden gates of fantasy.