They evanesce out of the

darkened screen

and swirl or float in ever changing shapes,

like moving sketches,

their edges ill-defined,

their players transparent and lost in grainy,

dimly perceived light,

snatches of music or dialogue sifting through them.

Jarred loose

or spontaneously brought to life

by the smell of new crayons

or the sound of a distant love song

or a sudden, unbidden glance

or reasons more obscure

than the remotest depths of spacetime,

they insinuate themselves like ashen street people,

or gate crash with vulgar, callous disregard,

and then fade to black,

mere will-o'-the-wisps

that smash in the solar plexus,

resurrect the dead,

stir the embers of ancient passions

played out in fumbling ecstasy,

reduce proud arrogance to

tearful regret,

or show mysteries in the true light of understanding

for the first time.

How startling and fearful

are the days

they have unleashed.