It has a sinister
air, troubled as the ghost
of someone murdered.
Each senses it
but dares not speak.
Rationalizing it
as a draft,
they rub their hands
and scoot a little closer
to the hearth.
Beyond the feeble reach
of reason,
brought to fruition
in the shadowy
purview of instinct,
it lurks, intransigent
as a pathogen
prying at a pore of health.