The mist is a transparent ghost,
Creepily floating all through the night.
Gliding around making you wet,
With his long wet arms.
Drifting over the landscape
Leaving a trail of fear,
As you walk past him
He'll whisper in your ear.
How quiet, how quiet,
He hovers over the field,
Turning the grass a pure emerald.
You hear his lonely moan by dawn,
When the gentle breeze flows.
As the glowing sun rises again,
The ghost disappears
And only the trail of fear and nerve remain.