I was told a messenger would ride by,
By a window I waited, from where I could spy,
Yet all I saw upon the road heading west
Was my misty reflection, my foggy old ghost
I reached out trying to pass beyond the specter,
He met me, probing finger to finger,
We hand to hand, I could not pass,
He stood my guard, fiend of Black Mass
If a messenger passed in the night’s ink,
It must have been that then I’d blinked,
I met no messenger riding by,
By land or sea, none called or cried
The dawning light brought on the day,
My ghost guard faded fast away,
And I, here where I could only be,
What is the other side to me?
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