At the foot of the bed in the dead of the night
It stood there, or rather it hovered –
Two luminous eyes and a face ghastly white
From which I have never recovered.
When I asked, ‘Who are you?’ It looked taken aback,
Indeed, you could say It looked frightened;
But then, I was too, and my hair, raven-black,
From that moment has curiously whitened.
So I asked It once more, ‘Who are you?’ – Again
Its pale lips moved mockingly, mutely,
While the night-wind howled loud in the sobbing rain
And It stared back, trembling acutely.
Which seeing, I screwed up my courage and switched
On the lamp, hands fumbling in terror –
Then my eyes met a jibbering idiot who twitched
Like my twin in the newly hung mirror.
– by Raymond Wilson
