No silver but the sunlight lends reflection in the window just the same as a polished mirror,
Perhaps slightly less opaque, giving Gregory the ghostly form he thought he had:
A mess of orange hair, cut poorly, on his head,
His antique eyes (they had also belonged to his grandfather) hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses,
Freckles flecking his face and a crooked smile hiding behind all-too-thin lips,
Rounded hips that gave him a funny gait
And a sense of style that was virtually non-existent.
Greg’s lines clashed so violently the mind had to tune his ensembles out for the sake of its own sanity,
And so he was rendered mostly invisible, not for lack of personality (of which he had very little of),
But for gaudy dress that had an effect set at the reverse of “impress.”
Stressed tests and failed to play games again,
Gregory when faced with the space between grace Went maneuvering past the gates and spent solitary Saturdays assorting microbes by weight.
Fated for a life of loneliness,
His only accompaniment invisible to the naked eye,
Just like Gregory.