a ghost's song

Was it just wind in the garden, I know not,

For it shone but briefly, like the moon come dusk,

A shining, yet veiled thing,

Trailing its ghostly glow.

From this wispy spirit, came a low, sweet song

Carried by the wind, loud, then gentle,

To my ears, still flesh.

It sang of a sadness, a dream,

A lust for a quick death.

'Twas poetry, sweet song.

But ah, I now realize, this ghost was my sweet,

And died by the hand of its lover.