Nomad Writer

Our eyes miss the magic

Shimmers of fairy dust

Tickling sneezes and sniffles

In the crisp summer air

Traces of the ethereal

Hidden within dimensions

Beyond the myopic sense

To only believe

What can be seen

Perhaps it’s bliss

To mistake chilling whispers

At our ear

Or playful tousles of our hair

As mere tricks of the wind

It could be luck

That we never catch

The haunting fury

Of death’s lingering gaze

Eager to snatch

Our fragile souls